


The 'game' in the North ... how the battle of the bastards might have gone

by KByrd



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-20 07:15:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11915844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KByrd/pseuds/KByrd
Summary: An AU of the battle of the bastards featuring an OFC (Raisa) as Robb's widow. What if Jon had taken Stannis up on his offer to be legitimized in order to take back Winterfell?





	1. Robb's widow arrives in the North

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, I’ve aged up all the Starks – GRRM seems to have an odd view of age-appropriate behaviour for kids. Second, I haven’t read anything credible on how long seasons generally last in the GOT universe, but in book one it says that 7 years is exceptionally long for summer. So … I’ve gone with the idea that seasons generally last 3-5 years. I’ve no evidence for that, it just helps me ground my story. Therefore, I’ve imagined Robb and Jon as being in their late teens when the GOT story starts; Jon here is in his early 20s.
> 
> And some of you may have read a rough draft of this story when I was still writing the main character as Jeyne Westerling. I’ve changed so much of her character that I’ve decided to rename her, but whole sections of the former story remain. So it might seem familiar to some readers.

They reached the Wall in the grey dusk of another cold, drizzly day - wet, cold, and tired. Raisa rode their last remaining horse; Ser Brynden trudged wearily through the mud his socks squelching damply within his leaky boots.

They had considered leaving Raisa at Mole Town while Brynden went on to Castle Black, but when they arrived, the townfolks were cleaning up after a recent wildling raid and there was no safe place for Raisa.

“We’ll push on,” Raisa said firmly.

“Mormont might guess who you are,” Brynden muttered.

“I’m willing to risk it,” she said.

“He probably won’t care,” the knight agreed. “He’s old-school. The Night’s Watch takes no part … he might even be MORE willing to let Snow go if he realizes our plan.”

They had discussed their alternative plans if Mormont was unwilling to release Snow from his vows or if Snow were unwilling or if something had happened to him.

Brynden was aware of Lady Catelyn’s animosity towards her stepson and he harboured doubts about Snow. He worried that the bastard might not be as amenable to Robb’s plans as Robb had assumed.

Raisa had faith in Robb and thus in Robb’s love for his brother.

As a last resort, Brynden was willing to marry Raisa himself and travel to the free cities, but this plan was unappealing to both even though Raisa liked him. He had been the perfect protector for her on this painfully long, slow trip, but she didn’t want to marry him.

And he certainly didn’t want to marry her.

At Castle Black they were greeted politely, if coolly, at the gate. A young man was summoned to take their horse; another escorted them up to the Lord Commander’s solar.

Raisa collapsed gratefully onto one of the soft leather covered chairs near the fire.

“My lady is weary,” Ser Brynden told the escort. “Could you fetch her some bread and wine?”

The man nodded and bowed politely. “Right away, m’lord,” he promised.

He did slightly better, returning almost immediately with two bowls of hot meaty stew, crusty bread and hot, spiced wine.

“Thank you,” the knight said formally.

They dug in with pleasure.

“It’s still only autumn, isn’t it?” Raisa said uneasily. “I hate to imagine what it will be like when winter arrives.”

“Bloody cold, dark, and miserable,” Ser Brynden grunted.

She pursed her lips and looked at him with an expression akin to pity.

He ignored her unspoken concern and kept eating, mopping up the last of the stew with his bread.

They were just finishing up when the door swept open and a tall, heavy-set man with short cropped hair and a grizzled beard strode in.

Ser Brynden rose immediately.

The new man was accompanied by several young men, dressed in black and armed for battle. “And you are?” he asked the guests without preamble.

“I asked to speak to the Lord Commander,” Ser Brynden said mildly.

“I AM the Lord Commander,” the new man said shortly. “For now at least.”

Ser Brynden looked surprised. “I expected Mormont,” he said.

“Killed on the other side of the Wall,” the Lord Commander said shortly. “I will not ask again - you are?”

“Ser Brynden Tully,” he answered shortly.

The man glanced swiftly at Raisa, who had remained sitting, and then returned his gaze to Brynden. “I am Ser Alliser Thorne,” he announced. “Acting Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.”

“Shall I kneel?” Brynden asked.

Thorne grunted. “Not necessary. Excuse our manners. Few people come visiting us so far north, so late in the season. What would you have of me?”

Brynden smiled politely. “A bed, food, a place to rest for a few days while we recover our strength.”

Thorne nodded.

“And if you have a ranger called Jon Snow, a word with him if you please,” Brynden continued, trying to sound casual.

“What would you want from him?” Thorne asked.

“He is my nephew,” Brynden explained.

Thorne turned to one of his guard. “Fetch the bastard out of his cell and bring him here,” he ordered. “No need to tell him why.”

“He’s in a cell?” Brynden asked when the guard had gone.

“Treacherous things, bastards,” Thorne answered.

Thorne asked a few questions of conditions to the South; Brynden answered as best he could. From Thorne he learned of the uprising that had killed Mormont and the choosing to come.

After what seemed like a very long time, the guard returned gripping the arm of a stocky, dark-haired young man. He was dirty, his long, curly hair matted with what looked like blood and ice. A welt under his eye was healing; a fresh cut on his lip oozed blood. He was unshaven and wrapped in what appeared to be a bearskin over the usual black garb of a Night’s Watch brother.

He was shivering.

The guard gave him a little shove and he stumbled slightly but straightened.

“You summoned me Lord Commander?” he asked, his voice husky as if he had not spoken in a while.

“We’re going soft at the Wall,” Thorne sneered. “You have family come to visit for tea and biscuits.”

Brynden scowled at the comment.

Jon looked at Brynden without a spark of recognition. He looked quickly at Raisa, still sitting, and then back to the knight.

Brynden stepped up, forestalling any further comment. “This is a matter of some delicacy,” he said firmly. “Might we have a moment in private?”

To his surprise, Thorne shrugged. “Sure,” he said carelessly. “I’ll leave you to it.” He left with his guards.

“You look very much like your father,” Brynden said, privately thinking that Jon looked even more like Brandon, his sister’s original betrothed. They all shared the same long, somber Stark face, but Ned had been a paler version while Brandon had been like this boy, dark hair, pale skin …

“So I’ve been told,” Jon nodded, his clipped Northern accent reminding Brynden even more of Ned.

“Do you know who I am?” the knight asked bluntly.

Jon looked uncertain. “I’m not … sure,” he admitted.

Brynden extended his hand. “I’m Ser Brynden Tully of Riverun,” he introduced himself.

Jon took the hand carefully. “Lady Catelyn’s …” he hesitated. “Brother? … but I thought you would be younger.” His hand was cold as ice.

“Uncle,” Brynden corrected him. “And this is …” he motioned to Raisa, but Jon held up a hand.

“If this conversation is meant to be private, this is not the place to reveal secrets,” he said gruffly. “The walls have ears.”

Brynden and Raisa looked at each other uneasily.

“Is there a place we might speak?” Brynden asked.

“On the Wall,” Jon nodded. “But it’s bloody cold. The lady might prefer to stay by the fire.”

Brynden and Raisa shared another look.

“Go,” she urged him.

Jon pulled his cloak around him. He inclined his head and Brynden followed him somewhat reluctantly out a side door and up a winding staircase.

When they forced the outer door open and stepped out onto the top of the wall, the wind came whistling along like a living thing defending its territory, blowing loose snow into their eyes and cutting through their clothes as if they were naked. Brynden stifled a gasp and bent into the wind as Jon led him to a sheltered hut with a grate for a fire.

“Seven hells!” Brynden swore.

Jon smiled, but faintly as if his face was unused to the expression.

“I served with your brother, Robb,” Brynden explained.

Jon nodded absently, his eyes going to the distant horizon.

“Have you been told the fate of your brothers?”

“Yes,” Jon said tersely. “Robb murdered at the red wedding. Bran and Rickon murdered by Theon Greyjoy.” He looked furious.

“And your sister Sansa?”

“Married to the Imp,” Jon nodded, his lips tight in anger.

“Your brother Robb did not want Winterfell to end up in Lannister’s hands if ought would happen to him,” Brynden explained curtly. “So he wrote a will.”

Jon waited.

“In his capacity as King, he legitimatized you,” Brynden said. “Declared you Jon Stark, Lord of Winterfell in the event of his death.”

He waited for Jon’s reaction but the young man seemed frozen, a faint look of puzzlement on his face. “I cannot,” Jon said finally. “I’m a man of the Night’s Watch. I took vows for life.”

“There’s a way out,” Brynden responded. “A loophole so to speak.”

Jon scowled.

“A King’s command, plus a payment of gold, and a man to replace you. It’s been done before.”

“Someone to replace me?”

“Me,” Brynden agreed, shivering in the tiny hut.

“You would take the black in my place?”

“I’m regretting it with every moment we stand here,” the knight said dryly.

Still Jon hesitated. “The Boltons hold Winterfell.”

“So you take it back.”

“With what army?”

Brynden glared. “When you march out as the rightful heir, the son of Lord Eddard Stark, the North will rally to your cause and help you re-take it.”

Jon snorted.

“I didn’t think that Ned’s son would be a coward,” Brynden grumbled.

Jon rolled his eyes. “Don’t try to needle me. I’m used to much worse.”

“There’s one other thing,” Brynden added.

“The girl?” Jon guessed.

“Raisa,” Brynden nodded. “Robb’s widow. She’s pregnant.”

That startled Jon. “She’s carrying Robb’s child?”

Brynden was freezing and fed up with this sullen boy. “No,” he snapped sarcastically. “I diddled my nephew’s widow on our way up to the Wall and now want to evade my fatherly responsibilities by taking the black …”

Jon smiled faintly.

“What do you want me to do with her?” he asked softly.

“Marry her,” Brynden answered bluntly.

That rocked Jon.

Brynden ticked off the reasons. “If she identifies herself as Robb’s widow, carrying his child, she will be in mortal danger from every wanna be king in Westeros,” he said forcefully. “But if she takes another name, she will be at best a widow, raising a child by herself, even if people believe her story, and at worse seen as wanton whore with a bastard …”

Jon scowled. Brynden had a good idea that he’d been wounded by the term himself.

“The plan might need some tweaking,” Jon muttered. “Do you know that the king is here?”

“No. Which one?”

“Stannis,” Jon answered. “He’s already offered me what Robb suggested. And I turned him down. He won’t take kindly to me accepting a second offer.”

Brynden pulled his cloak tighter around himself and the two men settled down to discuss their options.

**

For her part, Raisa was feeling sleepy in the solar. It was stuffy, humid, a little over-warm and smelled of leather and damp wool. The windows in the solar were fastened tight, but every once in a while, the wind caused them to rattle. The light outside was fading. The fire in the grate flickered. She added more wood.

There were footsteps on the stairs where Brynden and Jon had vanished. Raisa leapt to her feet as the men returned, both shivering and rubbing their arms from the cold. They both headed immediately to the fire and held their hands out to warm them.

Raisa’s heart skipped. “Well?” she asked impatiently.

“It’s agreed,” Brynden said bluntly, “with some small modifications.”

“King Stannis is here,” Jon explained. “Along with his wife, Selyse, and his red woman, Melisandre. We will have to be careful."

Raisa watched as the men warmed their hands by the fire.

"I've agreed to the plan," Jon said gruffly, "but with a few tweaks. Ser Brynden has very kindly agreed to take my place and I will seek to reclaim Winterfell."

"And what of me?" Raisa asked.

"We'll use the back story you and Brynden thought up to hide your identity," Jon answered. "We'll call you Bella while you're here and when I leave, I'll escort you to one of my bannermen's castles where you should be safe."

"You'll just leave me there?" Raisa asked.

"You'll be safer there than in a siege camp," Jon explained, his brow furrowed.

Brynden nudged him. "Think you missed a step," he suggested.

"Oh!" Jon agreed. "Well, yes of course we'll marry first. I agreed to that."

Raisa could not quite believe her ears.

Brynden grinned. "SO romantic," he teased. "Just about brought tears to my eyes."

Jon sighed and smiled faintly, showing a bit of humour.

"She'll make you pay for that later," Brynden said.

Jon smiled at the mockery. “I’m sorry, my lady,” he said. “I have been so long at the Wall with no women around I have forgotten my courtesies.”

He knelt and reached for her hand. “I am not my brother Robb,” he said solemnly, “but I promise to protect you and care for you as he would have if you will accept me as your husband.”

Raisa hesitated. He was not Robb. He looked nothing like Robb and she didn’t know if that would make things easier or harder. But Robb had loved him. Talked of him as a true brother and told tales of adventures and loyalty and a fierce Northern bond. And Robb was gone. She nodded mutely.

Jon got stiffly to his feet and brushed imaginary dust off his knees.

“I think our first step might be to request an audience with King Stannis,” he said. “And then mayhaps, find suitable lodging for you both.”

He made no effort to kiss her or display any sign of affection.

Raisa tried not to mind.

**

Jon handpicked several black brothers to be her escorts and warned her not to wander around the castle alone. They escorted her to a wing of the castle where the few women attending the Queen were staying.

The ladies were quiet and not overly curious. They gave Raisa suitable warm clothes and fresh bread and butter, then pointed her to a soft feather bed.

After weeks of being cold and wet and hungry, of eating lean game meat and dried jerky and sleeping on the hard, damp ground, these simple amenities were more welcome than the most glorious of luxuries. Raisa fought back tears of gratitude, buried herself under the covers and slept for fourteen hours.

At dinner the following day, Ser Brynden briefed her on their meeting with the King.

“He’ll take the deal although he seemed none too happy about it,” he reported. “And Thorne is happy to get rid of Snow so he won’t stand in our way.”

“Where is Jon now?”

“On the other side of the Wall,” Brynden explained. “Apparently he lost his wolf, but some watchers think that they saw him lurking in the forests. He doesn’t want to go on without him.”

Raisa thought of Robb and Grey Wind and nodded in understanding. Robb might still be alive if he’d kept his wolf with him as his mother had insisted.

The Queen summoned Raisa for a brief inspection.

“Highborn are you?” she sniffed disdainfully. “You look foreign.”

Raisa tapped down her flare of annoyance. “In the West there’s a lot of trade with people from the free cities and the East,” she said vaguely, hating the lie about her own heritage.

“And someone is going to escort you to a castle near-by?” the Queen asked, apparently not interested in details.

“I believe so,” Raisa agreed.

The Queen dismissed her with an imperious wave.

Her stay at Castle Black was destined to be short. Stannis was loading wagons and preparing to march South. The plan was for Jon to escort her to the castle of a loyal bannerman and maybe recruit some more followers before joining up with Stannis for what was expected to be either a short battle or a very long siege for Winterfell.

Raisa had little to do but eat and sleep and regain her strength.

Jon did not seek her out although she glimpsed him a few times. He had recovered his white wolf and the pair were easily visible amongst the crowd of black brothers and King’s men.

Several days after her arrival, she wrapped up in furs and asked one of the Queen’s men to escort her to the top of the Wall. She stood on top of the world and looked at the North – a view few people would ever have a chance to see. It was an amazing sight – bleak, snowcapped mountains rising in the distance, forests as far as they eye could see, a deep and heady silence under the wind that made her shudder.

She rode down in the lift and watched some recruits spar in the training yard.

She wandered into the stable – redolent with the familiar scents of damp horse, straw and manure. The dark brown horse that had brought her all this way was lame, but resting comfortably in his stall. She patted his neck. They would be leaving him behind.

In the main dining hall, she was offered a bowl of stew and she accepted it gratefully.

Several men nodded politely to her, but none stopped to chat.

As she rose to leave, she caught sight of Jon, bundled up in his furs, walking through the hallway at the end of the large hall, his enormous white wolf a silent shadow at his heels. Raisa dismissed her guard and stepped out of the dining hall.

The castle was a dark, grim place with few creature comforts. Brynden had warned her not to wander about as the Night’s Watch was composed largely of rapists and petty criminals.

Her footsteps echoed on the stone floor and when she rounded a corner, she saw that Jon had stopped and was waiting for her, his face a mask of quiet politeness, no more. His white wolf stood silently by his side.

Raisa paused.

“My lady?” he inquired softly.

Raisa looked around. “It’s a bit public here,” she noted. “Is there somewhere more … private? Where we could speak?”

“There’s not a lot of privacy on the Wall,” Jon answered curtly. “And I’m not sure it would be appropriate.”

Raisa frowned. “In a short while we’re going to be alone on the road together,” she pointed out. “And shortly after that …”

Three Night’s Watch men pushed past them both, jostling Jon in the narrow hall.

One clapped him roughly on the shoulder as he went by. “The famous Snow magnetism at work? Don’t see it myself, but leave some ladies for the rest of us when you go South, eh?”

The other two laughed and one leered and winked as he looked back at Raisa.

Jon scowled.

“What was that all about?” Raisa asked.

“Nothing,” he said, the tension in his jaw belying his words.

Raisa hesitated.

“Here,” Jon suggested, tipping his head. “This might do.” He inclined his head and she followed him down a corridor. He pushed open a small door and gestured for her to enter. “Ghost,” he murmured to the wolf and the creature trotted off to the end of the corridor.

Raisa was reminded of Robb’s silent command of Grey Wolf, who had likewise done Robb’s bidding even when no-one else could understand the order.

The room she stepped into looked like an unused office, with a messy, dusty desk covered with junk and an unmade bed pushed up against the wall. Raisa followed Jon into the windowless room and he held the door mostly closed, letting in only a slim slip of light.

“I haven’t seen much of you,” she started the conversation.

“I’ve been busy getting ready for our departure.”

“I don’t know the details of the plan,” she said.

“This is hardly the time or place to discuss them,” he answered testily. “We don’t want word getting out.”

He was not tall, but stocky and compact with pale skin, a dark close cropped beard, brown eyes so dark they appeared black, and shoulder length dark hair that curled in an unruly mess around his face. He had a fresh scar above and below his left eye and a fading bruise on his jaw. He looked wary and uncomfortable – they had not spoken since the day of her arrival.

He looked nothing like Robb and she was reminded of her husband’s description of Jon – ‘kind of yin to my yang’.

“Stannis has legitimized you, hasn’t he?” she asked. “Made you Lord of Winterfell?”

“Officially,” he nodded curtly. “Still have to win it back or it’s an empty honour.”

“So you don’t need me,” she said.

“Sorry?” Jon seemed puzzled.

“I know why I am doing this,” she explained, putting a hand over her still flat stomach, “but why are you?”

“Robb wanted …” he started to say.

“I have other options,” she interrupted. “I could have gone South, I could stick with the story of being a widow of one of Robb’s men … Ser Brynden said HE would marry me …”

Jon smiled faintly. “Brynden’s not really the marrying type,” he said gently.

“I know,” she nodded. “But are you? Do you like … girls?”

“I do,” he said emphatically.

“But not me?”

“How could I not like …” Jon looked furious, his eyes flashing. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “How could you say that?”

“You haven’t shown any interest in me,” she pointed out carefully, not wanting to seem excessively needy.

“It’s risky,” he said warily. “I don’t want people asking questions, getting too curious.”

“But when we are married?” she asked.

“I’ll do my duty,” he said seriously.

Raisa felt breathless. “Men of the Night’s Watch take vows of celibacy, right?” she checked.

“They do,” he confirmed, looking away. “We do … I did.”

“So have you ever been with …?”

“Yes,” he cut her off sharply.

His face was a mask, but she could sense his discomfort. She was not sure why. She was not so naïve to assume men didn’t sleep with women before marriage (or before joining groups such as the Night’s Watch) – certainly Robb had not been a virgin when he had taken her to bed. But then she remembered what Robb had said about Jon and honour and vows.

“I loved Robb,” she tried to explain. “I don’t expect … that. But I don’t want to settle for a loveless match where you do your ‘duty’.”

“My lady …” Jon murmured.

“Close your eyes,” she ordered.

“What?”

She threw caution to the wind, stepped forward and grasped the front of his cloak. Jon looked startled then she kissed him, pressing her lips to his in a quick rush before she lost her nerve.

His lips were soft against hers, his beard bristly.

He pulled away, looking alarmed. “My lady!” he said. “There’s someone coming.”

She could not hear anyone, but Jon pulled the door closed and they waited in darkness for several seconds. And then, footsteps. At least two men walked by, chatting amicably to each other.

Jon opened the door a crack and frowned at her. “We cannot be found like this,” he said firmly. “But I promise you, once we are married, I will … I understand what Robb saw in you, why he did what he did … I promise to take care of you and cherish you …”

“A REAL marriage?” she asked.

“Absolutely,” he promised.

And Raisa understood that she had to accept that. For all her brave talk of options, she knew she was running out of time. In a few weeks, she would be obviously pregnant. She could not continue to wander the North. She could not stay at Castle Black. She was at the end of the world, at least the civilized world, and she was running out of choices.

**

First, Jon had to be released from his vows. There were promises made and gold paid and documents signed.

Brynden said his Night’s Watch vows before a heart tree on the other side of the Wall and then said farewell to Raisa.

"Give the boy a chance," he counselled her. "He seems a gloomy sort, but he'll come around."

The caravan followed Stannis south and south-west, retracing the steps that Raisa and Brynden had taken to get to Castle Black. Raisa rode with the women at the back of the caravan, sometimes on horseback, sometimes inside the claustrophobic wagon.

It was heartbreaking to go South considering how painful their trek in the other direction had been. Raisa took note of landmarks as they rode – that was the place where their second horse had finally succumbed, there was where they had stayed an extra day because Raisa had been sick, there was where they had taken refuge from the bear …

She hardly saw Jon, who was one of the outriders, travelling apart from the caravan most of the time and merely riding in to report to the commander. She suspected that he slept during the day since he appeared to be one of the guards on night duty as well.

Several weeks south of Castle Black, Jon approached her on foot, accompanied by a boy who might have passed for a squire.

“My lady,” he said politely. “The fork in the road approaches. Here is where we strike out on our own.”

“On foot?” she asked in some surprise.

“No,” he smiled gently. “But leave your horse with this boy. Is this everything you are bringing with you?” He shouldered her pack and helped her dismount.

“Yes.”

“Anyone you want to say good-bye to?”

“No.”

“Then let’s go.”

Much to her surprise, he led her to a loaded dog sled, packed high with food and equipment and warm blankets. Raisa snuggled in under the covers as the dogs raced through the forest, leaving the caravan struggling through deep snows and mud in the road.

The dogs forged their own path through the trees, running at surprising speed. The sled, despite being loaded heavily, glided smoothly over the hard packed snow and Jon kept up on skis.

They stopped in mid-afternoon for a meal.

Jon offered her food, cold, but hearty, and a horn of ale.

“We’re going west, aren’t we?” she asked. It was cloudy and hard to see the sun, but she had suspected all day that they were going in the wrong direction.

“Yes.”

“Aren’t the Karstarks in the East?”

“Slight change of plans,” he admitted.

Raisa felt her heart thud uneasily. “You told the king that you would take me to a Karstark stronghold.”

“Since Robb took the head of Lord Rickard Karstark,” Jon explained, “I judged it rather dangerous to leave his widow and heir in their hands.”

“So where ARE we going?” she asked.

“Bear Island,” he answered. “It’s quite isolated and mostly run by women, so I thought it was a better choice.”

Raisa nodded.

“How far along are you?” he asked diffidently.

She touched her belly again. “About three and a half months.”

“And did Robb know?”

“No,” she answered.

She dared not tell him that she was herself uncertain of her pregnancy. She had not bled since before Robb had gone to the wedding, but she had little enough experience with pregnancy to be truly sure. Certainly, she had been nauseous and sick occasionally on the trek North, but mostly in the evening, not in the mornings, and she had suffered no other symptoms.

Still, she had to be carrying Robb’s child. She had to believe.

They pushed on, travelling the last part in the dark to find shelter near an old run-down tower.

“I can take first watch if you’d like,” Raisa offered.

“No need,” Jon assured her. “Ghost and I have a routine.”

“I’ve been sitting all day,” she said tartly. “I’m quite capable of standing guard and shrieking if something scary approaches. I shared watch duties with Ser Brynden on our travels.”

He grinned, possibly the first time he had shown any humour. “Of that I have no doubt,” he said formally. “But it’s only one night and I don’t mind.”

When she woke at dawn, it was bitterly cold. The damp on the trees and shrubs had frozen to create a winter wonderland. Ghost stood guard on a nearby hill. She had not ever heard him make a sound and she wondered how he would warn Jon if something approached. The wolf turned his head, regarding her gravely with those red eyes while she stepped around the sleeping sled dogs to find a bush to pee behind.

Jon was sleeping, wrapped in a cocoon of his Night’s Watch cloak so nothing of him showed, half under the sled and only partly protected from the elements. So chivalrous of him. There was room in the sled if he had wanted to climb in with her.

Raisa made breakfast and coffee and Jon stirred, awoken no doubt by the scent of bacon.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice even more raspy and gruff in the early morning. He fed the dogs and returned to the sled for breakfast.

“I’ve been thinking of our story,” Raisa said suddenly.

He blinked sleepily at her, sipping at his coffee. “Our …?”

“We need to be on the same page when people ask us things,” she persisted. “Like when we met.”

“Let’s keep it simple,” he said shortly. “I doubt they’re going to interrogate either one of us.”

“I’m going to change my name,” Raisa announced.

“Oh?”

“All of Westeros knows that your brother wed a girl called ‘Raisa’,” she pointed out. “It won’t take a genius to put two and two together once you show up also married to a girl called ‘Raisa’.”

“Right,” he said. “So what’s your preference? Not many people get to name themselves.”

“Well, I told Brynden to call me Bella because I had a cousin called Isabelle,” she said. “And it’s a common enough name.”

“It suits you,” he said matter-of-factly. “It means beautiful.”

He wasn’t flirting, merely stating a fact.

Raisa had been called beautiful on occasion, mostly by members of her family and by Robb, of course, but she was more used to people not knowing how to describe her. She’d heard people saying that she was ‘dark’ and ‘moon-faced’ and ‘foreign-looking’ …

“And how we met?” she persisted. “Even if we marry immediately, the baby is still going to be early. The women are going to know that we … that I …”

“First babies are often early,” Jon pointed out. “We’ll just say that we met a few months ago and ah … you know … and now I’m doing the honourable thing.”

“How well do they know you?” Raisa asked.

He shrugged. “Been a few times with Father and Robb. And they’ve sent representatives to Winterfell on occasion. They’ll recognize me.”

“Then, they’re never going to believe that you broke your vows for a girl,” she said firmly. “Robb told me that you have a reputation for being very strict about things like that.”

Jon scowled and rose from his seat. “Robb put me on a pedestal,” he said gruffly. “I’m just a man. And just as likely as any other to break my vows for a pretty girl.”

She was startled by his sudden anger. Then understanding dawned. “You broke your Night’s Watch vow for a girl?” she asked incredulously.

“Yes,” he said shortly.

“Who was she? Where is she now?”

“Dead,” he answered shortly. “Let’s get going. There’s a storm brewing up and I want to be at Bear Island before it breaks.”

He strode off to harness the dogs.

And late in the afternoon, with storm clouds threatening, they were ferried across rough water to the castle of the Mormonts on Bear Island, a relatively small castle, by Westeros standards, but well protected.

Jon and Raisa were led immediately into a large, high ceilinged receiving room. There was a child – a girl of no more than thirteen perched on cushions on a high backed chair that looked like a throne.

Jon did not kneel but he bowed his head respectfully. “I assume you are Lyanna Mormont?” he asked politely. “Head of Mormont house in the absence of your sisters?”

“I am,” the child agreed solemnly.

Jon glanced sideways at Raisa. “My lady is tired after a long voyage. Could you spare some bread and wine for her?”

The child smiled and clapped her hands. “But of course, guest right. Ever since the Red Wedding it means less and less, but we in the North still hold it sacred.”

Jon smiled.

A servant presented them with hot, buttered bread on a tray with a small bowl of salt and two tankards of rich, brown ale.

Raisa dug in with indecent haste; Jon took a sip of the ale and a nibble of the bread.

“You are welcome here as long as you like,” Lyanna said politely. “But is there more you want of me and my house?”

“That depends on you,” Jon answered carefully. “I would never presume to demand fealty, but I read your response to Stannis. Are you still loyal to house Stark?”

“Robb Stark is dead,” the child said bluntly. “And his brothers.”

“Do you know who I am?” Jon asked.

“The Bastard of Winterfell,” she nodded. “But it seems maybe I have to be more specific – there’s more than one bastard claiming my liege lord’s castle.”

Jon smiled grimly. “I am Jon …”

“I know who you are,” the girl interrupted him. “Lord Eddard Stark’s bastard. His last remaining son.”

“That’s right.”

“And?”

“Before he died, my brother Robb wrote a will saying that he wished to make me legitimate and thus the heir to Winterfell,” Jon explained. “Stannis fulfilled that promise.”

“I thought you had taken the black?”

“Stannis released me from those vows so that I might take Winterfell back.”

“Convenient,” the girl mused. “Have you sworn loyalty to Stannis?”

“Yes.”

They waited.

“Your brothers are dead, but what of your sisters’ claims?” the girl asked.

Raisa thought Jon would have to tread carefully here - House Mormont was ruled by women.

“My sister Sansa is married to the Imp,” Jon said firmly. “I have no wish to usurp her and she will ALWAYS be welcome if she seeks sanctuary, but I will not tolerate a Lannister ruling in the North.”

“And your other sister? I hear she is to be married to the bastard currently ruling in Winterfell.”

“Ramsey Snow,” Jon sneered. “A monster in human skin.”

“Be that as it is.”

“Same answer,” Jon said. “She will always be welcome, but rumour has it, the girl betrothed to Ramsey is likely an imposter. No one has seen or heard of my sister Arya since the boy king took my father’s head in King’s Landing.”

The girl looked haughty. “House Mormont has always been loyal to the Starks of Winterfell,” she said. “And we don’t intend to stop now. If you plan to march on Winterfell to remove the Bolton bastard, we will support you.”

“Thank you.”

The girl turned her attention to Raisa. “And you are?”

Jon took Raisa’s hand. “Allow me to introduce you to my betrothed, lady Isabella. I would beg sanctuary for her while I fight."

The girl smiled at Raisa. “My lady, it is a pleasure to host you at Bear Island for as long as you need. Is there ought else we can do for you?”

Raisa smiled. “Thank you, my dear,” she said. “How do you feel about hosting a wedding?”

**

Things moved fast after that.

Raisa was escorted to a large, luxurious guest room where servants ran piping hot water into a deep bathtub and Raisa stripped off her grimy travel clothes and sank gratefully into the water. She could not remember the last time she had had a bath, or indeed been submerged in water. She’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be clean.

The servants bustled about showing her dresses and undergarments and she nodded and agreed to this and that.

“No corsets,” she declared and they nodded.

Lying naked in the bath, hidden by the bubbles from a package of scent that the servants had tossed in, Raisa ran her hand over the curves of her body and took note of the changes.

Buried under her winter clothes, she still appeared slim and girlish. Indeed most people if they chanced to look upon her body naked would still describe her as thin, but Raisa herself could feel how her belly, once flat, was beginning to curve. She touched the slight bulge under the water.

Her pregnancy still seemed unreal to her. Sometimes she expected her courses to return and to realize it had been merely a miscalculation on her part. But the longer she went without bleeding, the more she thought it might be real.

She closed her eyes for a moment and imagined Robb kissing her, touching her, stroking her skin … She could feel tears threaten.

She remembered him so clearly, from the glint in his eye, to the rough feel of his beard, the soft, rumbly timbres of his Northern accent, and the feel of his arms around her as they cuddled in bed.

She washed her hair twice and winced as the water turned grey.

They drained the water and filled the bath again.

Raisa scrubbed her skin until it was red.

She climbed out of the bath and allowed the servants to wrap her in soft clothes. They patted her hair dry and combed it out.

They trimmed and painted her nails.

They dressed her in fine silk underclothes and chattered cheerfully to her about how lucky she was to have arrived before the storm that was bearing down on them.

“First autumn snow,” one of them said.

She looked at three dresses and settled on a lovely velvet gown made of soft pale blue with gold piping that scooped in the front and laced up the back. The servants braided gold chains into her hair and offered her jewelry. She said no.

The servants offered her a heavy fur lined maiden’s cloak that had no sigil.

“That will be fine,” she agreed.

They offered her a mirror.

The pale blue dress wrapped around her curves and made her feel elegant. It scooped in the front just enough to hint at cleavage without being too daring. The servants had woven gold chain into her hair but let her tresses fall loosely around her shoulders. The fine silk underclothes made her feel absurdly pampered.

Beauty was subjective and she’d long been warned that relying on other people’s opinion of her worth would drive her to madness.

She reminded herself that Robb had considered her lovely and Jon had called her beautiful.

She made her way downstairs and met Lyanna, also dressed in her finery, at the grand doors of the hall.

“You look lovely, lady Isabella,” the girl said formally.

“And you, lady Lyanna,” Raisa answered politely.

There was a veritable mob milling about in the hall, everyone dressed in their colourful finery. Raisa could not tell who was high born and who was a servant.

Her first wedding had been a quiet, solemn affair – a quick ceremony in her family’s sept attended by immediate family members. None of Robb’s family had been present.

Lyanna took Raisa’s hand and led her outside into the dark night. It was cold although the rain was holding off for now. Torches lit their path to the enormous grove of trees, lorded over by the biggest weirwood Raisa had ever seen.

The mob followed, voices laughing and shouting in the dark.

It was raucous and joyful and nothing like any wedding Raisa had ever attended.

Only a few of the crowd could fit into the grove, but Lyanna led the bride to a spot immediately before the tree. In the flickering light of the torches, the tree appeared alive, its red eyes winking and its mouth moving. Added to the whispering of the leaves in the wind, Raisa could imagine that the old gods were talking to her albeit in a language she did not know.

Jon was there, dressed in formal attire, a light shirt laced up the front, but open at the neck, and a fitted leather jacket. It was the first time she’d seen him not wearing the black attire of a Night’s Watch man.

He was clean shaven and his hair was washed and combed. He looked shockingly young.

No septon performed the ceremony.

They knelt on an embroidered mat in front of the tree and said their words to each other.

The crowd hushed.

Up close, Jon was somber, unsmiling, with a crease between his eyes that might be mistaken for a frown. Raisa wondered for a moment if he were unhappy.

She took note of how he bowed his head to the tree and she thought about his willingness to take the black. She was beginning to appreciate that he might be rather devout.

They rose and Jon unfastened the maiden cloak from around Raisa’s shoulders. He handed it solemnly to Lysanna, then put his heavy black Night’s Watch cloak around Raisa’s shoulders.

And just like that, they were married.

Despite the crowd, Raisa was struck by how intimate the ceremony was. In the dark, in the circle thrown by the nearest torch, it felt like just the two of them under the sprawling embrace of the white tree.

Jon slid his hand across her cheek, stroked his thumb thoughtfully around her ear and then leaned in to kiss her.

It was nothing like the first awkward peck at Castle Black.

This was a real kiss, his lips hungry on hers; she opened her mouth and leaned in and he pulled her closer, one hand on her waist, the other behind her neck. Her fingers scrambled on his jacket, seeking something to hold.

He tasted of cloves and smelled of leather and aftershave.

Someone in the crowd whooped and then they were all yelling and cheering.

They kept kissing. She hooked her fingers into the straps interlaced on his jacket and pulled him even closer, their bodies bumping up against each other.

They broke apart. Raisa buried her nose in the crook of his neck, bare to the elements and he wrapped his arms protectively around her. He kissed her temple.

Suddenly Ghost was there, pushing through the crowd and slipping his wet nose into Jon’s hand.

“Hey,” Jon said lightly, pulling away and patting his direwolf’s head. “Felt left out, did you?”

Someone in the crowd yelled out something rude about Jon being starved for action by the look of that kiss and Jon laughed. “You think there were a lot of pretty girls at Castle Black?” he retorted, loud enough for many to hear. “You’d be hungry too if you’d just spent years stuck in a castle with naught but men.”

They made their way back to the castle for the meal. People were already singing and dancing and playing musical horns. There was some sort of competition going on between dueling drummers.

Inside the castle, the staff had outdone themselves despite the short notice. There was lots of food – mostly smoked and fried and pickled, but good and hearty.

They drank and they ate and several people stood to give speeches. A few told stories, laced with heavy innuendo, of Jon’s prowess with the sword. A few stood to give homage to Isabella’s beauty and grace.

“I can’t help but notice the parallels between this wedding and my father’s,” Jon said idly. “Did Robb ever tell you how my father ended up marrying Lady Catelyn?”

“No.”

“She was originally betrothed to his older brother, Brandon, heir to Winterfell,” Jon explained. “But when my aunt Lyanna eloped with Rhaegar …”

“Eloped?” Raisa asked. “I’d heard abducted.”

He smiled. “That’s the official story. Makes the prince sound a real shit, but within the family it’s commonly understood that if anyone abducted anyone, it was Lyanna who led the way.”

“Wow.”

Jon shot her a quick look. “Anyways, when Lyanna ran off, Brandon stormed down to King’s Landing and reportedly rode through the streets demanding the prince’s head for destroying his sister’s virtue.”

“How noble,” Raisa said faintly.

“Stupid,” Jon corrected. “The old king was already mad and paranoid. He summoned Brandon’s father, my grandfather, to King’s Landing and demanded that Jon Arryn bring my father and Robert Baratheon to court. He killed Lord Stark and Brandon and then Jon Arryn decided he’d rather go to war than give up his wards.”

“Uh huh.”

“Old Hoster Tully still wanted his daughter to go to Winterfell – it was a good match – so he told Jon Arryn that he’d call his banners if the second son, who was now Lord Stark, would wed his daughter right now.”

Raisa watched several couples take to the dance floor.

“They married the day they met,” Jon said.

“I met her,” Raisa told him. “Your … Robb’s mother.”

“Was she nice to you?”

“Yes.”

“She could be gracious when she wanted,” he allowed.

“She wasn’t nice to you?”

“Never let me forget what I am,” he said bitterly. “Even put it about that my father had dishonoured his vows.”

“He didn’t?”

Jon shook his head. “They always claimed I was younger than Robb, but actually I was born a few months before him. So when my father had the relationship with my mother, whoever she was, he was a free agent, not engaged to anyone. He never broke his vows.”

“How did you learn that?” she asked.

“I heard it from the servants when I was just a boy and I confirmed it with the maester.”

They watched the dancing. It was like nothing Raisa had ever seen in the South – energetic and fierce – the dancers swirled in long lines and broke apart. They danced as couples, then broke apart. They danced in groups, then separated. The music was loud and raucous; the dancers clapped hands and stomped their feet.

“I suppose we should join then,” Jon suggested uncertainly.

“I don’t know these Northern dances,” Raisa apologized.

“Not to worry,” he assured her. “I don’t mind not dancing.”

Once dinner was done, he excused himself, with a chaste kiss on her cheek. “Feel free to dance with others if the musicians switch to something you know, but I need to chat to some people,” he said as he took his wine glass and went to mingle with some of the high ranking men. Some were his own bannermen, Raisa assumed. He’d need to know where they stood in terms of support.

She didn’t dance with anyone. A steady stream of Bear Island women came to sit with her to chat about deep weighty political issues, and lighthearted gossip, to judge the pretty dresses and the dancing and the music. They were nice. Raisa was sure she would be comfortable here.

She watched as Jon made a steady circuit of the room, chatting with men along the way. Any shyness had vanished, he was relaxed and comfortable with these men and judging from the occasional burst of laughter, he was both willing to joke and accept some ribbing.

And then suddenly there was a change in the tone of the music. A young girl, probably no more than eleven or twelve climbed up onto a table and clapped her hands to get the crowd’s attention.

“We’ve had a wedding and a feast,” she announced. “But there’s still one more step to go before the gods consider them man and wife …”

“The bedding!” several voices rang out, and then the whole crowd was chanting and banging their fists on the tables. “Wedded and bedded! The bedding!”

The noise was deafening.

Jon drained the last of his wine and put his glass down. “Is this where I lament that I should have worn armour?” he said lightly.

This was yet another wedding tradition that Raisa and Robb had foregone.

She hugged herself nervously.

Jon was being swarmed by a crowd of mostly young girls.

"Be careful!" several voices ran out. "He's come from the Wall, he's likely a maid!"

"At least when it comes to women!" someone else shouted out.

Jon went, protesting only mildly, as the girls led him, and pushed him, and giggled as they reached for his clothes.

His leather jacket was already off and held aloft like a trophy when a small group of young men gathered around Raisa.

“My lady,” a young man called to her, reaching out to tug on her cloak. “My lady, come with me.”

Raisa shivered in nervous anticipation. She understood the tradition; she had participated in a few bedding rituals herself where she’d been part of a mob that ‘helped’ a groom disrobe. She understood that it was supposed to be fun and flirty, not traumatizing. Still …

“We’ll have to be careful now with the little lady!” a large lumbering man exclaimed as the young man led to her towards a group of about six men.

She tossed her head. “I’m a woman grown,” she said bravely, “not a shy maiden. She meant to sound flirty and confident, but feared that she sounded … not.

“Ha!” he laughed as he literally picked her up and flung her over his shoulder. “I’m sure the groom will appreciate that!”

The group of young men, mostly teenagers, with one older man who watched carefully, but did not participate, followed her up the stairs. They sang a rude song. Some of the other young men had some ribald ideas ...

Raisa gave back as well as she could. She joked that she was a high born lady and these boys were fooling themselves if they thought she'd ever look twice at them.

The boys played their parts well, pretending to swoon at her loveliness as they stripped off her clothes (but wrapped her in Jon’s cloak for modesty).

"You've spoiled me for all other women," one groaned.

They twirled her around until she was dizzy and blindfolded her with a silk scarf.

They teased her.

“Are you sure you don’t want to take one of us for ride first, my pretty filly?” one young man asked. “Plenty of stamina in these young boys – your intended looks a bit worn out …”

Raisa laughed.

They were distracted for a moment by a roar, clearly from Jon, in the next room, but it was followed by such a burst of feminine laughter that the young men laughed as well.

“Best not pinch him too hard,” one said, “else that white beast of his will come roaring up to see what’s up.”

They kissed her on the cheek and led her into a room. The men with her laughed at something (or someone) she could not see and a young girl clapped her hands and shooed everyone outside.

She could see nothing.

"Out! Out!" a girl ordered and a crowd of people pushed past Raisa into the hallway.

"If I were you, I'd leave him as-is," someone whispered in her ear as she departed.

"Your bride in all her natural glory!" someone yelled and swept her maiden's cloak away.

Raisa was left standing stark naked, slightly dizzy, blindfolded in an unfamiliar room.

The door slammed shut behind the last party goer and she was left apparently alone. She tried to hide her breasts and crotch with her hands.

"Jon?" she asked uncertainly.

"I'm here," he growled. "But you'll have to untie me."

She fumbled with the blindfold and pulled it off.

She saw Jon on the bed and promptly clapped her hands over her eyes with a gasp.

"I don’t like this tradition," he said dryly.

Raisa opened her eyes carefully.

Jon was naked. Lying spread eagle on the bed with his hands and feet tied to the bed posts.

Raisa scrambled to his side and fumbled with the ties on his wrist.

The knots were tight as he'd apparently yanked on them in his struggles.

"They seemed like such nice, sweet girls at first," he grumbled sarcastically.

She giggled. "Did they take liberties?"

"You could say," he complained.

She released his wrist and he twisted away to reach for the other.

"I'll get the door," she promised.

By the time she’d barred all the doors and blown out the candles, Jon had untied all his restraints.

She climbed into bed and Jon reached for her, pulling her close.

"Ok?" he murmured into her ear.

She nodded.

In the dark, his voice reminded her of Robb.

She used to think that there was only one Northern accent, but in the last few weeks, she'd heard great variation from free folk to small folk, Northerners from the Coast, and high born Northerners.

It shouldn't have been a surprise that Jon shared the same soft burr of the educated high born Northerner, not to mention the rasp in his voice as if he'd spent the day yelling commands.

No one else she'd met sounded more like Robb.

But beyond that, he was very different from Robb. He smelled different, he tasted different, he kissed her more fiercely, using tongue and teeth in a way that made her gasp.

He spread his fingers across the slight curve below her bellybutton.

"How are you feeling?" he asked softly. “Everything going ok?”

“A little sick earlier, but fine now,” she murmured.

He nodded. "And this ..." he said carefully, "is ok?"

"Jon!"

"Well I don't know anything about pregnancy," he defended himself.

"It's fine," she assured him, pulling him closer. "I want this"

She'd been so naive before Robb.

She'd crawled into his bed wanting to give him comfort without fully understanding what he might want.

As newlyweds, she and Robb had sought comfort in each other at every opportunity. She still blushed to think how often messengers must have waited outside their bedroom doors, waiting for the king to 'finish'.

Before Robb she hadn't known what pleasure her body could experience.

She hadn't known anything of men and how to please them.

Robb had delighted in showing her; she had delighted in learning.

Since his death, Raisa felt as if she had been in a bubble, isolated. No one touched her, no one hugged her or kissed her. On the long trek North, Ser Brynden had been a perfect gentleman and had barely touched her even when helping her mount her horse.

She was so touch starved, she craved the feeling of skin on skin.

Jon gave her exactly what she wanted.

He covered her body with his own, cupping one breast with his hand, his lips and his teeth raking along her skin.

She dug her nails into the hard muscles of his arm, nipping at his ear, running her hands down his back, enjoying the curve of his body …

He slipped a hand between her legs and stroked; clearly he knew exactly how to touch her.

She cried out, not caring if anyone might hear her and he continued to touch her until she was gasping and sobbing in his arms.

The only time she hesitated was when he pushed into her and she paused. He felt different. Heavier. Not Robb. She resisted a moment.

He stopped. "Ok?"

"Yes," she insisted.

She wrapped her legs around his and pulled him closer.

Afterwards as they lay tangled up in each other’s arms, still breathing heavily, with sweat cooling on their skin, she tried to explain.

"I've never been with anyone else. Only Robb."

"Me too," he admitted. "I mean, I've only ever been with one girl. One woman."

“Who was she?”

"A wildling," he said. "I broke my vows with her."

Her heart broke for these Northern boys and their vows. As far as she could see, they didn't break their vows any more or less often than boys in the rest of Westeros, but oh such guilt when they did!

"Is that why you were in a cell?" Raisa asked. "When we arrived at Castel Black?"

"No," he chuckled a bit. "If they imprisoned every brother who broke vows with a woman, they'd have more men in cells than walking the Wall."

"Why then?" She'd meant to ask earlier, but there had never been a good opportunity.

"Thorne wanted me tried for desertion and treason," he answered bluntly.

"You would NEVER," Raisa exclaimed.

He shifted pulling her close and kissed her hair. "Such faith."

"Tell me."

So he did. Raisa snuggled up to him, her head on his chest so she could hear his heartbeat and the rumble of his voice as he told her his fantastic story of a ranging gone bad, a promise, a betrayal.

He told her of killing Qhorin Halfhand and pretending to turn his cloak. He told of having to lie and claim anger at his family for treating him as a bastard.

He told her of mammoths and giants and of climbing the Wall.

And he told her of Ygritte a flame haired wildling girl who had captured his heart.

Raisa was crying by the time he finished.

"Sorry," he whispered to her. "I didn't mean to make you cry."

"I've only been thinking of myself," she explained, "but you're grieving too."

"I'll be good to you, I promise," he said fiercely.


	2. Jon was dizzy from being raised so high

There were so many changes in his life that Jon felt like his head was spinning.

He’d been catapulted to the top of a mountain and the air was thin.

There were days when he felt he was a mummer in a play where he’d been the understudy and was now expected to star.

Jon had attended the same lessons as his trueborn brother Robb so he’d studied languages and engineering, sword fighting, horseback riding, martial history, he even knew the basics of the Seven’s Faith thanks to persistent tutoring from the Septon.

At Castle Black, he’s probably been the best educated grunt in the barracks.

Technically speaking, he knew his lines. Lord Stark had insisted that ALL his children demonstrate good manners and acquire the skills of high born lords and ladies, whether that was dancing or choosing the appropriate utensil at dinner.

Growing up, Jon had had few opportunities to practise such skills since Lady Catelyn discouraged his presence at the high table and using such airs would have been cause for a beating at the lower tables (or indeed at Castle Black). So Jon grew adept at toggling back and forth between the manners and accent of a high born lord in front of his father and mannerisms more suited to a stable boy in front of his friends.

As a young man, he had travelled to Bear Island and other Northern castles as a shadow trailing after his father and brother, always careful to avoid offence.

In some places that meant eating with servants, not at the high table. In places where he was allowed to hunt or spar with the lads it meant never besting the highborn ones. He knew better than to speak up in public. There were some castles in the North that he’d never been to because his very presence would have caused offence.

Now suddenly, he was not only a legitimate Stark, but the Warden of the North.

He ate at the high table, next to lady Lyanna and was expected to partake in the debate among the learned men.

“What do you think?” one demanded of him at dinner.

Jon sipped his mead which was sweeter and smoother than the rough ale he was used to. He nodded thoughtfully to buy time.

It was not as if he didn’t have opinions. Even as a shadow, he’d listened intently to similar debates and argued his stance fiercely, but AFTER dinner, in private with his father and brother.

“I’m not sure I agree,” he said carefully.

The Northerners were argumentative, it was in their nature. They laughed at his opinion and poked holes in his argument.

They sniffed that he was too young, too green to be correct.

The debates were lively.

But mostly, they were respectful.

No-one dismissed him outright.

No-one sneered and said, “What do you know, you’re just an up-jumped bastard boy.”

Even though Jon knew he was.

Stannis had declared him their liege lord and expected him to rule the North. He was young for the task, but his father had been younger still when the mantle had fallen on his shoulders.

It was a stunning rise and Jon struggled to adapt.

 

Then there was the matter of his marriage.

He’d never considered marriage before, never dreamt of a highborn lady sitting by his side. He’d planned on joining the Night’s Watch and foregoing such trappings of nobility.

When he’d agree to marry his brother’s widow, he thought he knew what he was getting into. He was mourning Ygritte, the one true love of his life, and he could not see falling in love again. His bride was Robb’s widow and he was sure that he would never measure up in her eyes.

But they would do their duty. They would be polite to each other. Maybe after many years, they would grow fond of each other. He had no further expectations.

Of course, he hadn’t considered Bella herself.

Trust Robb to find and woo the prettiest girl in all of Westeros.

When Jon stood at the heart tree on his wedding day, shaved and bathed and primped to the fullest degree, he half expected someone, anyone to march into the ceremony and call a halt.

A highborn girl like this can’t marry a bastard!

He could imagine Lady Catelyn’s horrified protest if she’d lived to learn of his plans.

Bella stepped out of the darkness into the circle of candlelight like a princess or a goddess.

She was of medium height – thankfully not taller than him. She had golden skin and black, almond-shaped eyes and thick black hair curled and pinned up with gold chain to show her long elegant neck. When she smiled, she showed neat, white teeth and a dimple in one cheek.

Jon was rendered breathless.

She was wearing a low-cut blue dress that swooped around and accented her curves.

She had told him that her mother had been some kind of princess in a far away land before her father had convinced her to marry him and come to Westeros. She was so far above Jon’s station that he was surprised he was allowed to breathe the same air. Surely one of the spectators would take note of the discrepancy and call an end to this farce?

She took his hand and followed his lead in saying the marriage oath.

She leaned into him to kiss him and he responded with enthusiasm. Hell, it had been too long since Ygritte … his body was betraying him.

He led her back to the hall for the feast and tried to keep up his end of the conversation, but he was well aware that he was no match for Robb.

Robb – always laughing, always so confident. Robb had flirted shamelessly and happily with every girl he saw. Jon had sat in pubs and watched Robb charm every female from age 12 to 70. Since Jon himself had sworn off girls, he’d had little incentive to hone his flirting skills.

After the feast, he’d begged off dancing. He knew the steps of course, but he couldn’t stand to think of the comparison between his careful, halting steps and Robb’s flair.

Of course, Jon could not stop thinking of what would happen AFTER the feast. He was nervous about the bedding and worried about whether they should really consummate the marriage.

It was required of course to make the marriage legal, but Jon was not sure what Bella wanted. And since she was already pregnant … It’s not as if anyone else would know.

The bedding ceremony was embarrassing with young girls stripping him naked and touching him and making ribald jokes that were SHOCKINGLY rude. He’d never known that high born girls knew such things.

And then they were left alone, entirely naked, in the dark. And Bella herself reached for him, touching him gently and kissing him.

“This is OK?” he asked carefully, placing his hand uncertainly on her belly.

“Yes,” she assured him. “I want this. I want you.”

And Jon was only human. It had been months since he’d last lain with Ygritte. He leaned over Bella, kissing her hungrily, lapping at her skin with his tongue, allowing himself to touch her.

Afterwards, he found it easier to talk to her in the dark, telling her a simplified version of his story. She cried, but she assured him that she was glad that she’d told him. And he was glad that he’d been able to tell someone about Ygritte.

They slept curled up together in the warm feather bed.

Bear Islanders followed the ‘old ways’ and left the newly married couple isolated in their suite for several days. Traditionally, they would have been left at a remote cottage with enough food for several days so that they could ‘get to know each other’. Instead, while an early fall storm raged outside the castle, servants provided them with food and mead, and they were not expected to show themselves.

Jon had expected that they would lie with each other only the once to make the marriage legal, but she reached for him in the morning and he could not resist her.

In fact, it became a pattern. They made love in the mornings when the faint dawn light crept into their bedchamber. They made love at bedtime and sometimes woke in the middle of the night to make love again.

They took advantage of the luxurious tub in their own private bathing chambers to share baths and sloshed water all over the floor.

They tore each other’s clothes off and fucked on the bearskin rug in front of the fire.

They lay intertwined, wrapped in a blanket on the couch.

He asked her about her family and her upbringing and she asked him to tell her of Winterfell and Robb. Some of the stories he told made her laugh because Bella was quick to laugh and some made her cry because she missed Robb.

He had sworn not to compare her to Ygritte, but he couldn’t stop himself. Ygritte had been thin, hard and muscular, with pale freckled skin and red hair. Bella was naturally more curvy, with full breasts and wide hips. Her skin was golden, her hair dark. She had that one sweet dimple when she smiled and a way of looking at him with a sneaky smile that made his heart thud.

He was fascinated by her dimple and spent all day thinking up ways to make her smile just so he could see it. He visited the library and picked out sweet romantic stories that he was sure his sister Sansa would have liked – stories about knights and maidens. And he borrowed books that Bran and Arya liked – about dragons and battles.

Bella laughed and kissed him in delight.

He caught sight of her one day across the room. She glanced sideways at him under her lashes and he was suddenly achingly hard and breathless. He pictured himself ‘taking’ her in one of the alcoves, against the wall …

He mentally cursed himself. What would Robb say if he knew!

 

They lounged in their soft, comfortable bed, entwined around each other. Bella told him of things that Robb had said about Jon that made him scoff. “I was never the better horseman,” he argued with her. “Robb let me win sometimes that’s all.”

“That’s not what he told me,” she insisted. “He said you were definitely the better rider and swordsman and almost as good with a bow.”

“Hmph.”

“He loved you,” she said firmly.

“I miss him,” Jon admitted.

She carded her fingers through his curls.

He thought about the baby she carried. He was still trying to wrap his head around impending fatherhood because even though the child was Robb’s, Jon intended to claim him or her. There would be no distinction made in his family between half siblings.

It occurred to him that if the child was a boy, he would inherit Winterfell over Jon’s own children.

No matter, he assured himself. In truth, a son of Robb should be lord of Winterfell so Jon was not really entitled to Winterfell anyways. He could pretend that he was merely acting as regent until the boy came of age.

“I had lunch with one of the midwives,” Bella murmured, nuzzling his neck. “She seems nice.”

“Isn’t it a bit early?” he asked. “No need to make them suspicious.”

“It’s been three weeks,” she answered mildly. “Time enough for a bride to suspect.”

“It hasn’t been that long,” he corrected her.

She waited; he counted in his head. “Seven hells!”

“Three weeks and two days since our wedding,” she said, smiling.

He sat up. “What the hell have I been doing for three weeks?”

Bella giggled.

“Stannis will be wondering where I am,” he pointed out. “It doesn’t take THAT long to get to the Karstark’s holdfast and back to Winterfell.”

He considered the tasks that needed to be done before departure. The weather was fine, the castle was well provided, the sleds were packed, the dogs were ready, the men had been chosen …

“We – the men and I - we should leave tomorrow,” he said frowning. “I’ll make the announcement at the evening meal.”

Bella didn’t try to dissuade him, only kissed him lightly.

 

**

They left at first dawn the next day. Bella did not come to the courtyard to see him off – he’d told her not to – but other Bear Islander women kissed and hugged their men who were travelling with him to fight.

They were ferried across the sea and then they organized themselves for the trek to Winterfell.

Jon was young, but he was no child. He was a true Northerner and he remembered the lessons his father had taught him.

He’d been eight when the last winter had fallen in the North and twelve when spring had come. It was before the war with the Iron Islands and the arrival of Theon so his memories of that winter were of him and Robb and Sansa racing around the wilderness around Winterfell on skis and sliding down hills on old shields and having great snowball battles …

Ghost loved the snow. He frolicked, rolling in drifts and bounding ahead of the travellers.

“Only one who doesn’t have to work,” Jon grumbled half to himself as he pushed up a hill. His muscles ached with the unaccustomed exercise.

The dogs were swift so it took only three days to get to their goal. They circled around and approached Winterfell from the south expecting Stannis’s army to be in siege position in the woods around the castle.

Instead, the area was barren, almost eerily calm.

Jon found a small band of Northerners camped out within sight of the drawbridge.

The leader greeted him and invited him inside his modest tent for a meal.

“Are you the advance guard?” Jon asked. “I expected Stannis to be here by now.”

“Stupid man,” the Northerner grunted, offering Jon a mug of sweet tea. “Snowed in. Too stubborn to adapt. Probably half his men are dead by now.”

Jon felt a chill at the man’s words. Without Stannis, his task would be so much harder.

“We’re blowing our horns, beating our drums,” the Northerner continued. “Trying to make the imposters think we’re an army on their doorstep, but so far, they haven’t dared come and investigate. Scared of a bit of snow, I guess.”

He laughed heartily.

Jon ate and drank and asked more questions.

In the morning, he took a small group with several sleds piled high with food and went searching for the snowed in king.

Jon and his companions found the encampment by mid morning.

Even though the sun was full up, the tent city was ghostly quiet. No dogs barked, no horses whinnied, and there was no sign of people. All the tents were covered in snow; many had collapsed from the weight.

At the centre of the encampment, there was a burnt area with the blackened stump of several posts poking up through grey snow.

“I hear the king burns men alive,” one of Jon’s men muttered.

“Madness,” another grumbled.

Jon said nothing, but privately agreed. How could a king expect loyalty if the men feared that such a fate might await them for a misstep?

Jon threaded his dog sled though the tents, noting the paucity of tracks in the snow. The snow between the tents was virginal. He had almost reached what he assumed was the King’s tent – the largest, most elaborate tent in sight, when finally a bit of motion on his right caused him to halt the sled.

A soldier stumbled out of his tent, waving his sword in one hand and trying to hold onto a huge bearskin cloak in the other. “Halt!” he yelled. “Who goes there?” 

Jon stared at him in amusement. “Now you challenge me?” he said. “If I’d meant harm to your king, I could have sliced him up for breakfast by now.”

The soldier stood up a little straighter. “No-one harms the king while I’m on watch,” he blustered.

“Good thing I’m one of the good guys,” Jon said. “Go get your king for me. I presume he’s awake?”

The soldier hesitated.

“I’ve got food,” Jon prompted him.

The soldier jumped to obey and within moments, Jon was being ushered into the presence of Stannis – gaunt and grey and slumped in a chair in his tent.

“Your Grace,” Jon took a knee. 

Stannis squinted at him. “Jon Snow,” he said slowly.

“Stark, actually,” Jon corrected him drily. “You legitimized me.”

“So I did,” the king nodded ponderously. “And my aide says you have brought food?”

“Yes, your Grace,” Jon answered.

“Rise,” Stannis said. “What do I have to do for this food?”

Jon stood. “Nothing your Grace. No Northerner would seek a deal to prevent starvation.”

Stannis nodded, but did nothing more.

“How many men are left?” Jon asked.

“Hundreds,” Stannis answered. “But we’ve eaten the horses. We can’t leave.”

Jon signaled to his men who had been hovering in the doorway. “Get pots of soup boiling. Break out the bread. Go door to door with bowls of soup and bread. Tell me what the situation is.”

They saluted him and left.

Jon pulled out his own pack and fed the fire.

“You don’t have to do that,” Stannis protested. “I have staff.”

“Who appear to be half dead,” Jon retorted. “I used to be a steward, I’m more than capable of serving you.”

He heated a pot of soup in a pot, served a small portion in a bowl and offered it to Stannis.

“Take it slow now,” he warned. “Eat too fast or too much and you’ll just chuck it all back up.”

Stannis glowered but ate his soup.

Jon went outside and helped his men deliver bowls of soup to thin, starving men. Grimly they went door to door, counting the living and piling the dead in a heap outdoors.

Once most people had eaten, Jon gave orders for the men to be organized into teams – some assigned to rake the snow off the roofs of the tent, others to remove the bodies and burn them, others to take down the collapsed tents. The weapons piled up.

At evening, everyone got a hearty meat stew and thick yeasty ale.

Jon went back to talk to Stannis who had revived impressively.

“So now that you’ve saved us, what do you want?” Stannis grumbled at Jon.

“A little gratitude wouldn’t be amiss,” Jon shot back.

“So let’s deal,” Stannis said.

“I don’t think now is a good time to bargain,” Jon snapped. “I wouldn’t want you reneging on a deal down the road claiming that you were under duress.”

Stannis’s eyes bugged down. “I would NEVER …” he snarled.

Jon wondered if he had perhaps pushed too far.

“I made you legitimate,” Stannis growled. “Gave you that name that will allow you to claim Winterfell.”

“Which I’m grateful for,” Jon answered calmly. “But I can claim Winterfell with or without you.”

“You know nothing about …”

“Stop talking to me as if I’m a small child,” Jon interrupted. “You have no idea how tired I am of men like you thinking that I’m some soft boy. I am a Northerner and a son of Eddard Stark. Don’t make me prove how tough I am.”

Stannis glowered. “So you would leave us here to die?” he asked.

“No,” Jon answered. “I would leave you here with sleds and enough food for a week or so. What you do with that is up to you. If you leave the North, you can make it to warm green lands and friendly castles. Or you can stay and starve.”

“And what of Winterfell?”

“There’s no-one left at the castle who knows how to maintain her pipes and her systems,” Jon said firmly. “No Starks in residence, no maester, no castellan … In a year, maybe two, the water will sour, the pipes will burst, the fires will spew out poison. I’ll winter at one of my bannermen’s castles and by spring, I’ll be able to waltz in and take my home back.”

Stannis frowned. “So what are we negotiating?” Stannis asked. “Whether we help you get your castle back sooner or later?”

“Let’s start by discussing what you want,” Jon suggested.

“It’s not a matter of what I WANT,” Stannis argued. “I AM the rightful king of the seven kingdoms …”

“Well, as long as we’re starting with fantasy, I want my family back,” Jon said lightly, taking a seat. “Can you offer me that? My father, my brothers, my sisters … all alive and well?”

“I have your sister Arya,” Stannis said suddenly.

“What?”

“She fled,” he explained. “Escaped. Jumped off a wall …”

Jon was on his feet. “Where? Where is she?” His eyes were blazing.

Stannis hauled himself up and reached for his coat. He tottered, put his hand on the table for support then with a mighty example of will power, stood up. “This way,” he said calmly.

Jon followed him out into the snow and into the bustle of a camp energized.

Stannis nodded regally at his guards who fell into place behind them.

Jon reminded himself to stay calm. He had been given to understand that the girl set to marry Ramsey Snow was an imposter, but jumping from the castle walls … that was such an Arya thing to do!

The tent that Stannis led him to was large and in good repair. The snow had been swept off the roof and a guard stood at the entrance.

When Stannis appeared, the guard knocked on the door and requested entry.

“Come in,” called an unfamiliar woman’s voice.

Jon bulled his way in. There were three woman in the tent which was dimly lit by a brazier. One lounged on a cot, the other, a heavy-set older woman sat mending a cloak, and the third … Jon’s eyes went immediately to the tall, painfully thin teenager who stood to face him.

“Jon!” she exclaimed.

Jon stared. Not Arya, but someone he knew very well.

The girl flung herself into his arms. “Don’t say anything,” she whispered into his ear.

He held her tight.

Stannis grunted. “So you DO know her?”

“Yes,” Jon said, pulling away and smoothing her hair away from her face. “You’re OK,” he assured her. “I’m here.”

She was crying.

“They made you marry Ramsey Snow?” he asked her harshly.

“Bolton,” she squeaked. “Only Bolton. Never call him Snow.”

He pulled her close for another hug. “Shush, you’re safe,” he promised her, his lips at her temple, his fury rising.

Stannis watched him with narrowed eyes.

“Can we have a moment in private?” Jon asked.

As soon as they were alone, Jon pulled away from Jeyne. Jeyne Poole, Sansa’s one time best friend. A girl he had grown up with and someone he had kissed when he was a boy. But also a girl who had mocked him for being a bastard and who had gone South with Sansa.

“What in seven hells are you doing here?” he asked urgently, keeping his voice low.

“They made me pretend to be Arya,” she whispered. “Don’t tell them I’m not. Don’t make me go back.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jon snapped, more startled by her weepiness than anything else. “I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you.”

She clung to him a little tighter which was disconcerting.

He sat down on the bed and kept his arm around her shoulder. “So tell me what happened,” he murmured.

She told a mixed up, jumbled story of time spent in what sounded like a brothel learning unspecified skills, soldiers arresting her, the death of the septa charged with taking care of her and Sansa, travelling North, having Theon vouch for her at the wedding … she faltered at describing what Ramsey had done to her and Jon assured her that he didn’t need such details.

“He hurt you?” he asked.

She nodded.

“I’ll kill him,” he vowed.

She took a shuddering breath.

“Do you know what happened to the real Arya?” he asked.

She shook her head. “The day the soldiers came, she was with her dancing teacher.”

Jon frowned. “Dancing?”

“Odd isn’t it?” Jeyne agreed. “She went every day and she always came back bruised and tired but somehow really happy.”

“What kind of … dancing?”

“I don’t know.”

Later, the other women returned to the tent and Jeyne introduced them. The stout older lady was Alysane Mormont, eldest surviving daughter of Bear Island and she had pledged herself to Stannis. Jon had to resist saying that he had recently met with her sister Lyanna. The second lady was, to Jon’s shock, Theon’s sister Yara. Alysane was charged with guarding her, but at this point, they seemed more like companions than guard and prisoner.

“Theon saved me,” Jeyne told him sadly.

“From Winterfell?” Jon asked.

Jeyne nodded. “Got me out of the room I was locked in and then we jumped.”

“What happened to him?” Jon asked.

“He’s a prisoner of Stannis,” Yara answered.

“He’s here?” Jon asked, standing up. “Still alive?”

Jeyne jumped to her feet. “He’s not … you don’t understand.”

“His life is forfeit,” Jon said sharply. He left the tent and looked down the long path to a small tent with a guard in front of it.

He could hear Jeyne calling him back but he marched over to the guard. “Is Theon Greyjoy in here?” he asked bluntly.

The guard hesitated, but nodded. Jon pushed his way in.

The tent was small and dimly lit, smelling of body odour and food waste. There were several cots, but only one was occupied – by an old man buried in dirty furs.

Jon looked around and then looked more closely at the old man shivering under his furs. He reached for him, grabbing at his skeletal shoulder and to his shock and horror, the man started to cry and rock.

“Theon?” Jon asked uncertainly.

“Not anymore,” the man whimpered. “Got to know your NAME …”

Jon gritted his teeth and hauled the man out of bed. He stared at his father’s former ward.

Theon was a few years older than Jon. He’d always been bigger and stronger. He’d been a fierce fighter, an excellent swordsman and archer … Jon had looked up to him at times and had scorned him at other times. They’d clashed when Theon had mocked Jon as a bastard, but bonded when Theon had coached him in archery. They’d never been like brothers, not like him and Robb, but they’d grown up together and been something like friends.

The man standing before him on shaky legs looked fifty years old. His hair was white and wispy, unwashed and stringy. He was painfully thin and his cheeks were hollowed out like that of a toothless old man.

He looked at the ground and rocked back and forth on stick-like legs.

“Theon?” Jon asked again in horror.

There was a commotion at the door as Jeyne pushed her way in followed by the guard. “Go get Stannis,” she ordered the guard. Then she turned to Jon. “You can’t do this!” she cried. “You don’t know what he’s been through.”

“He killed my BROTHERS,” Jon hissed, pulling his sword slowly out of its scabbard. “I will have justice.”

“No, no!” Jeyne wailed, grabbing at his arm.

Theon moaned.

“Stop sniveling,” Jon snarled at Theon. “Act like a man …”

“But he’s NOT,” Jeyne said urgently. “He’s not. You don’t understand what Ramsey did. He cut him. He cut … he’s not a man any more … Show him Theon! Show him your hands.”

Jon stared in revulsion. Theon crossed his arms and tucked his hands defiantly under his armpits. Tears rolled slowly down his face.

The guard returned, his bare sword in hand. “Stannis says you’re to leave the prisoner to him,” he ordered gruffly.

Almost reflexively, Jon raised his own sword.

“No! No!” Jeyne cried out, then reached her hands up as if to physically separate the two men. Jon twitched his sword out of her reach but not fast enough. Her fingers brushed the blade and blood spurted.

“Seven hells!” Jon swore.

He jammed his sword back in its scabbard and reached for Jeyne’s hands. “Valerian steel,” he explained, examining her fingers. “You’ll be alright, but let’s get you stitched up.”

He cast one more look back at Theon as they left. “Has he eaten?” he asked the guard.

The guard shrugged.

“Make sure he gets a meal,” Jon ordered.

He left Jeyne in the care of Alysane and Yara while he went seeking Stannis.

“Leave the Greyjoy boy alone,” Stannis said as soon as he saw Jon. “He’s mine own prisoner.”

“He killed my brothers,” Jon countered. “I should be the one to swing the sword.”

“Maybe,” Stannis shrugged. “Maybe not. How did your sister seem?”

Jon hesitated.

“Why does everyone think it so easy to fool me?” Stannis growled.

“I know her,” Jon admitted. “She’s from Winterfell, but she’s not Arya.”

“I guessed as much,” Stannis grunted. “Sit. Have wine. Let’s talk about what you want and what I’m willing to concede. And don’t prattle on about duress – I heard what you meant when you offered us food for a week.”

Jon sat.

 

**

Days later, a storm swept through the camp. The wind whistled between the tents, ice pellets rattled against the leather walls, and the camp inhabitants bunkered down nervously.

Jon dressed in his warmest clothes, layering fur with leather. He was packing a small, portable survival kit with dried food and flint when the king’s messenger appeared at his door.

“Stannis wants to see you,” the man said through chattering teeth.

Jon nodded and made his way to the big tent.

“You’re not going out in this weather, are you?” Stannis grumbled as Jon declined a drink.

“Been waiting for snow,” Jon explained. “It’ll cover my tracks.”

“Where are you going?”

“Reconnaissance. Around the castle. See if I can get in.”

“Go then,” Stannis waved him out. “Try not to freeze out there.”

Like every Northerner, Jon had heard the stories of people lost in winter storms, how they got lost on trips between the outhouse and the barn. He was aware that the gusty, swirling wind could twist his sense of direction, but he trusted Ghost to keep him safe.

He trudged on silent snowshoes to the very base of Winterfell.

He could not see if the Boltons had posted guards, but if they existed, they were blind and deaf in the storm.

At the base of the great wall, there was a small copse of trees. Ghost scampered ahead, thoroughly enjoying the weather and the adventure.

Jon could smell the leafy decay below the snow as Ghost dug down. He was briefly distracted by the warm scent of a rabbit, tucked safely in a cave, but re-focused to search for a larger cave that Jon knew existed.

Ghost found the cave and squeezed into the narrow opening. From the outside, it looked like nothing more than a hollow between tree roots, but Jon had spent his childhood scampering around these woods, seeking hiding spots, and sneaking through hidden passages into the castle.

He followed Ghost feet first down into the cave.

The cave and the tunnel smelled of damp rock, tree roots, moldy leaves, and a faint wisp of sulphur. Ghost led the way along a rough hewn path of sorts under the great wall of Winterfell until they were standing on a ledge overlooking the hot springs bath under Winterfell itself.

Jon held Ghost back, not wanting anyone in the baths to look up and see them, but the baths appeared to be deserted.

They retraced their steps, scrambling up over rocks to punch through a layer of snow that already hid the entrance.

They followed the wall around and found another entrance, this time man-made, a little known backdoor that led into the dungeons. The way was barred by an iron gate, but Jon reached down and found the release latch.

Even so, the gate was so old and rusted that Jon could push it only a short way open. He held it for Ghost and squeezed in after him.

The dungeons were little used at Winterfell – most often as a temporary holding place for minor criminals who waited Lord Stark’s judgement.

They had been built in an earlier time for much greater capacity, but Ned had mostly closed down the dark, dreary cells on the lower levels. There were enough cells at the front part for his uses.

The boys, Robb and Jon and their band of friends, had rarely been allowed down here except when the cells were empty, and Jon suspected that few people had ever ventured this far back in the dungeons. Probably no-one currently in the castle knew about the backdoor.

It was pitch black, but Jon dared not light a torch. He kept one hand on the wall and he and Ghost slipped silently through the tunnels. Through Ghost, he could smell the iron tang of the bars of the cells and a newer, unfamiliar scent of blood and infection and recent death.

He’d never been through here with Ghost before, but it seemed to him that the dungeons were nastier and dirtier than he remembered. They were also clearly in use – at least in the newer, brighter section up ahead as he could hear the rustle of cloth in straw and the sharp pungent scent of unwashed bodies and blood.

He paused at one point, listening the slow, moans of a prisoner in a cell somewhere up ahead.

“Back,” he whispered to Ghost.

They returned to the gate. Jon tried again to get it to open wider, but part of the roof had buckled and prevented the gate from opening further.

“Not going to get many warriors through here,” he muttered to Ghost.

They skirted the Godswood although Ghost could sense no guards.

At the bottom of the hill, Jon pushed open a trap door set in the side of a hill and slipped carefully down. In here, he needed a torch, but he had little fear of anyone seeing the light. And he didn’t need Ghost’s sensitive nose to pick up the stench of waste as the sewer flowed by in a foul brown river.

Ghost sat and whined.

Jon held the light up as high as he could and noted the footholds etched into the wall over the sewer.

At the last place they explored, Jon had to dig down deep into the snow to find a man-made wall. He took off his gloves and felt along the rough stones until he found a soft patch. He pushed, then he pulled, he kicked the rock a bit and used another to bang until part of the wall simply gave in. Jon lit a torch and put his whole head and upper body into the hole. Several feet below him, a river of clear, cold water flowed along a channel.

Jon pulled back and extinguished the torch.

“Access to Winterfell’s water supply,” he told Ghost as if the direwolf cared.

They headed back to the tent city. 

 

**

Stannis reluctantly agreed to let Jon move Jeyne / Arya away. So as soon as they weather cleared, Jon handpicked several trusted men, loaded Jeyne onto a dog sled and gave her a scroll to deliver.

“Thank you,” Jeyne whispered.

Jon wondered if she would ever recover her spirit. “You’ll be safe where I’m sending you,” he promised. “And after ... when this is all over, we can talk about your future and what you’d like to do.” 

Yara and Alysane watched her go with dry eyes.

 

**

Sieges were deadly dull and the one around Winterfell was no different. Everyone involved knew that this siege could not last. Sure the troops could handle the snow and the cold for a while, maybe as long as autumn lasted, but not for a full Northern winter. That would be folly.

They could not starve the Boltons out of Winterfell; their only hope was to lure them out into the open and fight their way into the castle.

Hence there was a sense of urgency as the men wondered how long they would be made to hunker down in the cold.

Stannis gave command more or less to Jon, who sorted his troops into mixed groups of Northerners and Southerners. He had them build trebuchets and other siege weapons. He spread their camp around the perimeter of Winterfell and sent the men on foraging missions to supplement the food provided to them by nearby bannermen.

Jon and Robb had studied warfare tactics and ironically had discussed how to withstand a siege from Winterfell. In some ways it was rather invigorating for Jon to transfer his theoretical knowledge to practice.

Jon supervised as the men practised their archery (no ravens flew over Winterfell any more) and sparred with various weapons.

He took his turn on patrol and made an effort to speak to as many men as possible. He was asking people from very far away to die for him and it was important that they understood the stakes.

The troops that Stannis had brought grew stronger.

The Northerners did their best to teach the Southerners how to survive.

And every once in a while, a group of fighters from a small Northern castle would arrive at the camp to swear loyalty to Jon.

House Ashwood sent a bastard son and 300 fighters; the First Flints sent fighting men under the command of a fiery young nephew of the lord, and the Forrester clan sent troops and a wagon of arms.

Jon accepted their oaths, responding with the same age-old words that he’d heard his own father say hundreds of times: "I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth, and meat and mead at my table. And I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New. Arise.”

He tried not to feel so much like an imposter.

 

**

He was dozing in his tent when a messenger from Stannis arrived. “King wants to see you,” the man said bluntly as he shook Jon awake.

Jon rubbed bleary eyes and staggered out of his tent to the king’s.

“Where have you been?” the king barked at him.

“Sleeping,” Jon answered.

“At this time of day?”

“I’ve been patrolling at night,” Jon shrugged. “Got to sleep some time.”

Stannis glared at him; Jon resisted the urge to pat down his hair, which he suspected was standing up in a wild tangle.

He glanced toward the newcomers, a knight and a squire, standing quietly by the door.

Stannis waved towards the guests. “These here people …” he said. “They have come to see you, more or less.”

Jon nodded courteously and then blinked in surprise as the knight dropped to a knee. Except that he wasn’t a knight, but a woman. A very tall, heavy built woman dressed as a knight in full Westerosi armor with a sword buckled to her belt.

“I have the honour to be Brienne of Tarth,” the woman said politely.

“I’m Jon, of House Stark,” he said warily, still uneasy with his new name.

“I’ve come seeking your sisters,” Brienne said, still on her knee.

“What?”

She looked up; she had a plain, somewhat masculine face. “I served your lady mother and I pledged myself to her service,” she explained.

“My …?”

“She means Lady Catelyn,” Stannis interrupted irritably.

“Of course,” the woman knight ducked her head apologetically. “I meant no disrespect.”

Jon scowled.

“I promised that I would find her daughters and take them to safety,” Brienne explained.

“So why are you here?” Jon asked.

“I almost caught up to Lady Sansa at Saltpans with Ser Sandor, but I lost her,” the lady knight said sadly. “I’m here seeking the younger one, Arya. I heard …”

“That she was married to Ramsey Bolton?” Jon asked.

“Yes.”

“And you’ve come to rescue her?”

“If I can.”

“You’re too late,” he said bluntly. “She’s escaped. Rise up my lady – your knees must be killing you.”

He offered her his hand while she climbed ponderously to her feet.

“Can I see her?” she asked.

“Arya?” Jon asked. “No, I’ve sent her to a safe place.”

The woman looked unhappy. “I knew it was a long shot, but I have travelled up and down Westeros seeking your sisters …”

“I’m grateful for your dedication,” Jon said uneasily, “but I have no clues to offer you. And I don’t quite understand why this task matters so much to you.”

“Your lady mother,” the woman tried to explain. “I mean Lady Catelyn … she trusted me. She sent me with the Kingslayer to trade for your sisters.”

Jon frowned. This was not the story he had heard.

“I … ah … failed to keep him safe,” she admitted. “But Jaime later gave me this sword and released me to fulfill my task.”

Jon looked helplessly at Stannis.

Stannis flapped his hands. “I cannot keep her here. What am I to do with tourists?”

“I can fight!” Brienne insisted. “I can help you take back Winterfell.”

“I’ll find you a tent,” Jon promised.

 

**

The weeks ticked away.

There were skirmishes.

It was boring.

A small village of camp followers threw up tents of their own behind the actual soldier tents. Stannis set rules and forbade the civilians from coming too close, but there was no way to really prevent fraternization. Armies drew camp followers – that was simply the way of the world.

Jon watched and learned.

He attended council meetings and tried to tap down his growing disquiet with Stannis.

It wasn’t that Stannis did anything wrong. He was clearly a capable ruler - he was hard and just, but ruthlessly fair.

But … and Jon struggled to articulate just what made him nervous – there was little love between Stannis and the men he commanded.

Jon’s own father had been known as a stern man. To be honest, Northerners preferred dourness to frivolity. But he had understood – and he had sought to teach his sons – that to lead men, you had to treat them fairly, listen to their grievances, respect their knowledge, and allow them a role.

In contrast, Stannis had a gift for offending every man in camp.

He spoke bluntly, often harshly to everyone.

He sneered at advice.

He dismissed requests with a brusque wave.

Stannis pissed the nobles off by openly calling on Jon, then ignored his advice.

It fueled resentment.

Jon tried to follow his own father’s advice. He supped with the Northern lords on a rotating basis. He asked THEIR advice and made a point of raising their concerns with Stannis.

But the Southern lords – divided into factions as they were – would have nothing to do with Jon.

The person Jon was most fascinated by was Davos. It was hard to measure in fact which of them had risen higher.

Davos was lowborn – he had been a smuggler and petty thief who had won Stannis’s favour by smuggling food to him during a siege. He was fanatically loyal to Stannis despite being mutilated by him as punishment.

He did not have much of an education. In fact, Jon was shocked (and impressed) to learn that Davos was trying to learn to read. It became a habit for Jon to drop by Davos’s tent in the evening to share a horn of ale. They chatted about tactics and sometimes Davos would diffidently ask Jon to explain something that Davos was trying to read.

But he was a good man – honest and hard working and cunning.

Jon was of course bastard born which the Southern lords could not forgive or forget, but he had the advantage of a lord’s education. He could read several languages and had studied war tactics. An ex-military advisor had taught him theories of warcraft, a master-at-arms had taught him fighting techniques, and his own father had taught him the courtesies expected in high society.

The Northerners watched and judged him; the Southerners seethed at his command.

It was a recipe for disaster in a fight, but Jon had no idea how to repair the rift.

“Who are you writing to?” Davos asked him one evening.

“A maester serving one of our local bannermen,” Jon answered. “He has a link on his chain that shows he studied poison at the Citadel so I’ve asked for his counsel.”

“Poison,” Davos warned him. “That’s not …”

“Honorable?”

“Hmmm.”

“The clock is ticking,” Jon reminded him. “And I can’t afford to play by the rules.”

“Where are you going to find poison?” Davos frowned.

“I’m going to take a dog sled and visit him,” Jon smiled. “It’s not far away.”

Jon wondered and worried whether Stannis would be a good king. And then he pushed the thoughts away because his path was set – he HAD to support Stannis whatever his concerns.

“When are you leaving?” Davos asked him.

“In a day or two.”

 

 

Knight: "I offer my services [Lord's name]. I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New."

Lord: "And I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth, and meat and mead at my table. And I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New. Arise.


	3. Sansa takes back her name

Sansa had never felt more constrained as she did when she stayed at Lady Emma's holdfast in her disguise as Alayne Stone.

She travelled with Lord Baelish, pretending to be his bastard daughter. Petyr was canvassing the noble houses of the North and the East; to Sansa’s eyes, he appeared to be taking advantage of their hospitality and offering little, but he insisted that there was method to his madness.

Lady Emma was an attractive, cheery widow in her mid thirties raising a gaggle of young children in a small, but well garrisoned castle, not far from Winterfell.

Sansa knew of her - had even met the late Lord Darron when he visited Winterfell, but she had assured Petyr that she had never met the widow.

Still, Sansa was finding that there was a world of difference between pretending to be someone she was not in the Eyrie surrounded by strangers, and pretending to be unfamiliar with the North while she was surrounded by familiar sigyls and customs.

The accent almost did her in. Every time she heard that soft burr of a Northern accent, she thought it was someone she knew and she had to concentrate very hard not to fall back on her native speech patterns.

Petyr was sure that Lady Emma could further his scheme (which he had not yet revealed to Sansa).

“All in good time, my dear,” he assured her.

As it turned out, Lady Emma was quite receptive to Petyr's plans for the North. She hated Ramsey Snow with a passion.

"He killed my sister," she explained bluntly as they shared a meal together "Everyone knows it. Nothing was ever done."

"I had heard he was ..." Petyr murmured delicately.

"A monster," she stated bluntly. "Now his father calls on me to bend the knee. As if!"

"How much support in the North does he have, do you think?" Petyr asked.

"Not much," she retorted. "Many of us would have died for old Lord Stark, but who do we rally around now that Lord Stark and his son, who called himself the King in the North are dead?"

"And how is the battle for Winterfell going?"

Lady Emma was surprisingly well informed. "Stannis has surrounded the castle and means to starve the Boltons out. He’s being supplied by a network of supporters like us. In fact, isn’t his commander coming here soon?" She turned to the maester.

He nodded gravely. "Yes, we've been corresponding about poisons and various noxious elements that he plans to use."

"He's going to poison the water at Winterfell?" Sansa asked in shock.

"He hasn't confided his battle plans to me," the maester answered, "but it would seem so."

"It's not Stannis himself," Lady Emma explained, "but a lad who grew up at Winterfell. One of the Stark boys so he knows the place inside and out."

"Jon Snow?" Sansa asked and Petyr glared daggers at her. She was supposed to remain inconspicuous, not ask inconvenient questions about issues that no base born girl from the south should be interested in.

"Snow, is he?" the widow asked. "I thought he was a Stark. No matter. He was a lovely boy although a bit gloomy if you get my meaning." She winked. "I'd love to know how to cheer him up."

Sansa opened her mouth to respond, but Petyr held his wine glass up and changed the subject.

Later, in the privacy of their rooms, he told her off. "I'm perfectly capable of asking questions, you know. How long will it take for the nice Northern widow to wonder why a base born girl from the South is so curious about the Starks?"

"But what if it's Jon?" she asked.

"And what if it is?"

"He's supposed to be on the Wall," Sansa reminded him. "Do you think he deserted?"

"Stannis doesn't seem the type to tolerate oath breakers," Petyr said.

Sansa said no more, but she spent the next few days wondering.

The widow's comment about cheering up the commander of the siege forces stuck with her.

She'd never understood it, but Jon had always been a popular target for some girls at Winterfell to swoon over when they were kids. Not that he'd taken any notice - he seemed singularly oblivious to feminine attention.

In fact years ago, Jeyne Poole had earned herself minor celebrity status when she'd announced to their small group of teen girls that she had once kissed Jon.

"And not a quick peck on the cheek, but a full on snogging session," Jeyne had bragged.

No one was ever able to confirm her claim.

So the widow's comment made Sansa think that it was likely her brother Jon, apparently posing as a Stark, who might be organizing the siege of Winterfell.

She had mixed feelings about seeing him again.

She thought of images from her childhood – Jon at the breakfast table with sleep mussed hair and droopy eyes, Jon tossing baby Rickon into the air, Jon laughing uproariously as Arya bested some boys in archery, Jon and Robb racing their horses across the fields at breakneck speeds, Jon and Theon fighting in the stableyard …

She couldn’t remember why she’d made such a point of reminding Jon (and anyone around him) of his bastard status within the family. Had she been really so insecure?

He’d never really reacted much to her nastiness, just got very quiet and withdrawn. Robb, on the other hand, had clouted her about the head and told her to behave whenever he heard her saying bad things about bastards. And Arya had flown into a rage.

Jon hadn’t been the only target of her adolescent nastiness. She’d told Rickon he’d never grow up to be tall, but he’d remain the tiniest Stark and told Bran that he’d never be good enough at sword fighting to be a knight. Arya could be wound up by any statement about her role as a girl …

Sansa had had plenty of time in recent months to review her behaviour as a child in Winterfell and she was profoundly embarrassed. She wanted to believe that her awareness of the wrongness of her behaviour was the result of growing up, NOT merely because she was experiencing the insecurity of life as a bastard herself.

She wondered how Jon would react to seeing her.

Would he be indifferent?

Would he sneer at her new reduced circumstances?

Tell her that she deserved whatever happened?

Would he reveal her identity?

When she heard a commotion in the yard, she stepped out onto the balcony to watch a small band of fur clad Northern soldiers drive their dog sleds into the yard.

There was no doubt the leader was Jon.

Even if she hadn't recognized the shock of dark, unruly curls, or his voice as he called commands to his crew, the great white direwolf that padded silently into the yard would have been the final clue.

She went back to her room and sent a messenger boy to fetch Jon.

She pulled her hood up over her dyed hair.

Jon was escorted to her room and stood politely in the doorway. Sansa had her back to him.

"You wanted to speak to me, my lady?" he asked diffidently, having no idea of her identity.

Sansa's heart thudded at his familiar voice – raspy and gruff. She turned to face him.

His wispy teen scruff had grown into a full beard, but he was otherwise exactly as she remembered.

His eyes widened at the sight of her then he stepped forward "Sansa?"

She bit her lip nervously.

“Holy … sh-” Jon said, opening his arms.

"Oh Jon," she sobbed stumbling into his arms.

He wrapped strong arms around her and it was all Sansa could do not to cry. She must have grown since the last time they'd been this close as she was now taller than him. They'd been the same height when she left for King’s Landing.

"Sansa," he whispered, his lips at her temple. "Seven hells. What are you ... what ... oh my god."

They clung to each other.

Finally Jon pulled away and stroked her hair away from her face. "I have a million questions to ask you, but I'm just so glad to see you," he said.

"I've missed you," she whispered. "God - you look like father."

"So people keep telling me," he smiled faintly.

Sansa wanted to talk more, but there was a sound behind her and Petyr walked into her room.

Jon stiffened immediately, scowling at the intrusion.

Sansa sighed. "Jon, this is Petyr Baelish," she explained. "He helped me escape King’s Landing. We're travelling together as ... pretending to be ... posing as ..."

Petyr stuck out his hand. "You must be the brother from the Wall."

Jon took the proffered hand. "I'm Jon," he agreed warily.

"Although I'm loath to break up such a sweet reunion, I have to remind you that our Lady Emma is expecting you for dinner." Petyr smiled although his eyes were cool.

"Not immediately," Jon argued firmly. "Give us some privacy so that I might speak to my sister."

Petyr raised one impeccable eyebrow and gave a mocking bow before leaving.

"He's not so terrible," Sansa insisted.

Jon scowled. "Is it true that they wed you to the Imp?"

"Not my choice," she said defensively.

He brushed her hair away again. "I'm so sorry."

She pulled away. "Believe it or not, it could have been worse," she told him.

"Is he here with you?" Jon asked. “I heard he was missing.”

"What? No!" she exclaimed. "Petyr smuggled me out of King’s Landing during Joffrey's wedding. I never told Tyrion my plans and he never told me he planned to kill the king. Odious little monster ..."

“Yes, I met him," Jon agreed and Sansa was not sure if he meant Joffrey or Tyrion. "Sansa ...?"

"Oh don't call me that," she cried. "All of Westeros is looking for me so I'm using another name. For now, you should call me Alayne. Alayne Stone."

"You're pretending to be a bastard girl?" he asked.

"Oh Jon!" she exclaimed, putting her hands over her eyes. "I was such a bitch to you. Can you ever forgive me?"

He laughed. "Course I can! You were just a girl."

"A nasty, spiteful girl," she lamented.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said firmly. “We’re family.”

“Forgive me?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you.”

Jon sobered. "There’s something I need to tell you," he said seriously. "You know about Robb?"

"The red wedding?" Sansa nodded grimly.

"Well, after what happened to the boys and you being married off the Imp," Jon said carefully, "Robb wrote in his will that if anything happened to him, that I was to be legitimatized and made his heir."

Sansa nodded. “Makes sense.”

“So Stannis made it happen,” Jon said.

Sansa understood immediately. "So I'm a Stone and you're a Stark?"

He nodded, but looked anxious. Sansa remembered how sensitive he had been about his status as a bastard. She punched his shoulder playfully. "Talk about ironic, huh?"

"You could say," he agreed a little uneasily.

“Are you officially Lord of Winterfell?”

He nodded. “And Warden of the North. IF I can get rid of the squatters in our castle.”

"You won’t lord it over me, will you?" she teased.

He grinned, showing a spark of humour. "I might," he promised. "It would only be fair."

"Cruel of you," she pouted.

"When I agreed, I thought I was the last one," he explained earnestly. "I thought Father ... Father would have preferred that I step up even though it was never my birthright ... There wasn't anyone to usurp."

"It's ok," she assured him gently. "Winterfell was never going to be mine and I think you're right. Father always said you were a true Stark despite your birth."

Petyr reappeared in the doorway.

"I have to see the maester," Jon remembered. "Let’s talk again after supper."

"You're not really going to poison the water, are you?"

"I am," he said grimly. "All's fair in war and the sooner we can flush these Boltons out, the better."

"But the lords will drink ale," Sansa pointed out. "It's the servants and the children who will drink the water."

"I can't afford to be soft," Jon insisted.

Petyr cleared his throat.

Jon kissed Sansa on her forehead. "Talk later," he promised.

**

The meal was amusing.

Sansa was sat several places away from Jon, who was placed next to Lady Emma.

She sat among high born Northerners who were stiffly polite to her but slightly scornful of a silly Southern girl.

She wanted to weep at their familiar accents and she wanted to drop all pretence and tell them that she was one of their own.

Perhaps sensing her conflict, Petyr was unusually attentive.

Sansa snuck peeks at Jon. At Winterfell, he'd rarely been called upon to play gracious host. Instead, he and Theon used to eat with the servants and hang around the kitchen and mock Robb for having to play the role of future Lord.

So he might have learned the courtesies of high society, but he’d rarely been called upon to demonstrate good manners.

Lady Emma flirted with him shamelessly. She refilled his wine glass every time he took a sip and asked him questions in a voice pitched so low he had to duck his head and lean in to hear. By the end of the evening, she was stroking his arm possessively and giggling at everything he said.

Sansa doubted that Jon’s conversation was all that funny.

She suspected that Lady Emma’s OTHER hand was on his thigh.

When the meal was done, Jon stood and dipped his head politely to his hostess.

"Thank you very much for the fine meal and wonderful hospitality," he said formally, "but as we've an early start in the morning, I must take my leave. And I'd suggest my men do the same."

The men groaned, but obeyed. They rose, pushing back their chairs with a clatter. Several nodded politely to Alyane who acknowledged their attention demurely.

Petyr took Sansa's arm and led her back to their rooms.

Ghost was waiting at the top of the stairs. He looked calmly at Sansa and she shivered, knowing instinctively that he wanted her to follow.

"You go ahead," Sansa told Petyr. "I'll be safe with Ghost."

"I'll come with you," he offered, but Ghost bared his teeth silently.

Petyr hesitated.

"I'll be fine," Sansa smiled.

Petyr looked annoyed, but he acquiesced.

Jon was waiting for her beside a dog sled hitched to a team.

“Where are we going?” Sansa asked in some alarm.

“Not far,” he assured her. “Just away from prying eyes and ears.”

Sansa hesitated. It was SO improper.

“How long has it been since you rode in one of these?” Jon asked with a smile.

“Ages,” she admitted, climbing in. “We came by horse, and oh boy, did they struggle in the snow.”

She snuggled under a black bearskin robe that looked like something from the Night’s Watch.

Jon stepped up on the board behind her and cracked his whip. “Let’s go!” he called and the dogs leapt eagerly into the traces.

The wind whipped Sansa’s cheeks as the sled swept out of the courtyard. The sky was inky black above her, but the snow reflected the pale light of the moon and the dogs were fresh and well rested. They flew down a well worn trail and circled around a grove of trees.

Jon settled the dogs and gave them meat to chew. Then he sat down on the sled next to Sansa. The faint light of the lantern flickered. He handed Sansa a thermos of hot cider that burned her throat as she drank it.

"I want you to come with me tomorrow," he said without preamble.

"To a siege camp?" she exclaimed. "Are you mad?"

"I don't like how he looks at you," Jon said fiercely. "Baelish, I mean. Has he taken liberties with you?"

"Of course not. We're posing as father and daughter."

"He doesn't look at you like a man should look at his daughter. I was watching him all through dinner."

“And I was watching how Lady Emma flirted with you.”

“I didn’t do anything to encourage her,” he said firmly. “And we’re not talking about me. If you’re posing as a bastard girl, you’re vulnerable.”

"I know," she assured him, patting his arm. "I'm not so naive as you think, but I've held him off so far. He’s not the type to use force."

"Maybe at first," Jon said darkly. "But once he realizes that seduction isn't working?"

Sansa sighed. "I've come this far with him. You’re being overprotective."

"I'm your BROTHER," Jon insisted. "I'm supposed to be overprotective."

"How would I be safer in a siege camp?" Sansa argued. "Are your men all eunuchs or saints?"

He scowled. “So spill,” he said softly. “Tell me what happened since King’s Landing. How are you?” His eyes were dark and intense.

So Sansa told him her story. Months of terror and loneliness and uncertainly were condensed into a tale, too short to really do it justice.

Jon listened intensely, looking grim. He asked about the marriage.

“Not consummated,” she said firmly. “I’m still a maiden.”

“That’s good to know although I’m not sure I need the details,” he smiled.

“I should be able to get an annulment or something,” she said, sounding more confident than she felt.

“What happened to Arya?” he asked at one point. “I heard something funny about dance lessons on the day you were taken?”

Sansa hesitated. “She was taking some sort of dancing lessons …” she said uncertainly. “It was weird, so not like Arya, but she seemed to love them. Only … she was always bruised and sore after the lesson.”

“What kind of dancing?”

Sansa remembered a half-heard conversation she had blundered into months later. “What is a Bravos water dancer?”

“A swordfighter,” Jon answered. “It’s a particular type of swordfighting with a narrow blade …”

Sansa bit her lips.

“I gave her a sword …” Jon said thoughtfully.

The siblings looked at each other with dawning understanding.

“Could she have been with this Bravos fellow when the soldiers came?” Jon asked urgently.

“How did you know?” Sansa asked. “Where did you hear about the dancing lessons? I had forgotten it myself.”

“It’s an odd story. Have you heard about Ramsey Snow claiming to marry Arya at Winterfell?”

“It wasn’t really Arya,” Sansa said firmly. “Petyr told me it was just some Northern girl dressed up to act like her.”

“How many Northern girls do you think they had access to in King’s Landing?” Jon said sharply.

“What?”

“It wasn’t just some Northern girl,” Jon explained curtly. “It was your friend Jeyne Poole. Dressed up to be Arya and made to marry that monster Ramsey.”

Sansa was horrified. “Oh I never thought! I wondered what had happened to her! She was with me when the soldiers came and then one day she was just gone … Oh my god!”

Jon put his arm around her shoulders. “It’s ok,” she said softly. “She escaped.”

“Oh, I never even thought about her after … with everything that was going on …”

“You had a lot going on,” he soothed her.

“How did she get away?”

“Theon,” Jon answered. “I’d make a joke about him finally growing some balls, but that would just be cruel. He found a semblance of honour anyways.”

“What?”

“Theon was captured by Ramsey,” Jon explained. “Tortured and mutilated. But he got Jeyne out.”

“You’ve seen him?”

“Yeah. He’s a prisoner of Stannis.”

“Why hasn’t he faced justice yet?”

“He will.”

“Why haven’t you just taken care of him?” Sansa said fiercely. “You’re Lord of Winterfell now.”

“He’s Stannis’s prisoner …”

“It only takes a moment to swing a sword.”

“Don’t be so quick to tell someone to kill a person,” Jon chided her. “I’ll do my duty if it comes to that, but let’s not pretend that it will be easy. We grew up together.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s OK,” he patted her back. “But sometimes I feel like all I’ve done since I left Winterfell is learn how to kill.”

“I hate him,” she said fiercely.

“He’s not worth your hate,” Jon said. “He’s a shadow of what he was. Pathetic, really.”

“I want him to face justice,” she said angrily. “For everything. For Winterfell, for what he did to the boys, for betraying Robb …”

“He may not have killed Bran and Rickon,” Jon said slowly. “He says he didn’t. They escaped and he killed some other boys to cover up that they’d defied him.”

Sansa gasped, considering the implications. “How?” she asked. “Rickon is just a child and Bran can’t walk or ride.”

Jon shook his head. “According to Theon, they escaped with Hodor and that wildling woman Osha and two young crannogmen who were visiting at the time.”

"Could Theon have told you that story so you didn't take his head off?"

"Maybe," Jon conceded, "but I've told him that his life is forfeit anyway for taking Winterfell in the first place and for killing those innocent boys. You haven’t seen him. He’s broken. Damaged."

“You think they went to Moat Cailin?”

“The Boltons sent a delegation,” Jon shrugged. “Didn’t find them.”

“Hard to hide a child, a cripple, and two direwolves,” Sansa said thoughtfully.

Jon thought of the direwolf he had encountered at the Wall. “Unless they went North,” he said thoughtfully.

Sansa continued her story, downplaying some aspects and skipping over other unimportant details. Jon hugged her and looked grim.

“I’m sorry you had to go through all that,” he said.

“What about you?” she asked.

“My story is less interesting and less pertinent,” he said shortly, standing. “We should get you back before I’m accused of all sorts of naughtiness. If you’re posing as a bastard girl, you’re vulnerable to gossip.”

“What are we going to do next?”

He looked at her thoughtfully. “Not sure.”

“What do you need to take back Winterfell?” Sansa asked.

“More men,” he answered. “Supplies, especially food.”

“Support from father’s bannermen?”

“Wouldn’t hurt.”

“I could go around to all the small houses and ask for help on your behalf,” Sansa suggested.

“I thought you were travelling incognito?”

“I can’t do that forever,” Sansa sighed. “As Alayne, I’m useless. No-one will even talk to me. Besides, it’s time we found out just how much loyalty Northerners still have for Starks.”

Jon nodded. “Wash that dye out of your hair and you’re the spitting image of Lady Catelyn. You might want to think of leaving Baelish behind though. You’ve been too long in the South; you’ve forgotten how prickly we Northerners are. Every time he smirks, we lose a little respect for him.”

“He’s useful,” Sansa defended him.

“Only as long as our cause lines up with his.”

Sansa agreed.

"If I gave you a dagger, would you use it?" he asked.

"It won't come to that."

"Remember the self defense lessons father gave you?"

"Yes."

He fiddled with some straps and pulled out a scabbard and a small, narrow dagger. "It's good steel," he assured her.

"Thanks."

“Stay as you are for now,” Jon decided. “I’ll send you a sled and a knight and you can do your tour of Northern houses.”

“Ok.”

He escorted her back to her room and kissed her cheek. "Keep the dagger on your person at all times," he advised her. "And under your pillow."

"Oh so nice to have my brother bossing me around again," Sansa laughed.

"Keep safe."

"You too."


	4. The siege drags on

Jon he sat in the king’s tent with a horn of ale and told of meeting up with his long-lost sister.  
The king’s hand, Davos was astonished at the news. “Are you sure?” he asked urgently, leaning forward.   
Jon scowled at him, some of the hard-won respect for Davos leaking away. “Am I sure?” he repeated incredulously. “You think I wouldn’t know my own sister?”  
“Of course, of course,” Davos said swiftly. “I only mean … you said she was disguised …”  
“Barely,” Jon said. “She’s dyed her hair and she’s adopted a Southron kind of accent, but …”  
Stannis drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the table.   
“We spoke privately for some time,” Jon continued. “She plans on visiting some local lords to drum up support for our cause.”  
Stannis nodded. “A true-born daughter of Ned Stark,” he said thoughtfully. “There are some who will consider her claim to Winterfell stronger than yours.”  
“I’m not worried about her ambitions,” Jon said.  
“When you play the game of thrones, your own wishes are often secondary,” Stannis observed. “She could be used as a pawn to sow dissent whether she wants to claim Winterfell or not.”  
“I know,” Jon said coolly.  
He was not fond of the so-called ‘game’ as Stannis called it, but he was smart enough to understand how it was played. It would not do to remind Stannis that Jon’s claim of legitimacy was flimsy and relied upon Stannis being confirmed as king. If his claim should fail, Jon would go back to being the bastard Snow.  
“Does she support my campaign?” Stannis asked bluntly.  
“Yes.”  
He nodded. “We need to find a suitable match for her then,” Stannis pondered. “A loyal supporter, high ranking enough to remove her from consideration as potential heir to Winterfell.”  
Jon grit his teeth in irritation as the king plotted to marry off his sister. Such political marriages were the norm all over Westeros and Jon had never before questioned them, but faced with the utter ruthlessness of marrying off a person as if she were no more than an object to be bought and sold, he wanted to tell Stannis that once he was Warden in the North for real, he would ensure that both partners in such marriages were part of the negotiations. He didn’t bother telling Stannis that now.  
Instead he pointed out the only argument that would make Stannis pause.  
“Officially she’s still married to the Lannister dwarf so any future alliance will have to wait until that matter is settled,” Jon said quietly.  
“Surely that marriage can be set aside?” Davos asked.  
“Eventually,” Jon agreed. “But you don’t want any whispers of impropriety, do you?”   
“No,” Stannis agreed, but unhappily.  
“Do I have your leave to send the lady of Tarth to escort Sansa on her tour of the Northern holdings?” Jon asked carefully.  
“She’s Southron,” Stannis objected. “Surely a Northern knight would be better.”  
“I’ll send some Northerners too,” Jon agreed. “But the Northern lords will admire such a strong woman. And it gets her out of the way of the coming battle.”  
Stannis nodded. He was fiercely opposed to calling Brienne a warrior and adamant that he did not want her to fight.  
Davos wanted to know what was in the barrels that Jon had brought with him from the Darron’s castle.  
“Poisons, various chemicals,” Jon said cautiously.  
Stannis peered at him in mild surprise. “Surprised to see a son of Stark stoop to such dishonorable tricks,” he said.  
Jon shrugged. “Good – then my enemies should be surprised as well.”  
“What kind of poisons?” Stannis asked.  
“I’d rather not go into specifics,” Jon hedged.  
“To your king?” Davos said aggressively.  
“There are no secrets in an army camp,” Jon pointed out. “I’d rather avoid whispers and rumors about what I am or am NOT prepared to do.”  
“Who is going to believe that you would be so sneaky?” Stannis asked. “Ned Stark is known and admired around here for his utter nobleness. Don’t Northerners expect the same of his son?”  
“I’m bastard-born,” Jon countered sharply. “We’re known to be devious and sinful.”  
The corners of Stannis’s lips curled up ever so faintly. It was not quite enough to be a smile for Stannis never smiled, but it was a slight softening of his stern countenance.  
“Then I shall ask no questions but disavow all dishonorable actions,” he said in some amusement.  
Jon nodded and went to seek out Brienne. 

**  
Jon understood that the people locked up at Winterfell were mostly strangers, unfamiliar with Winterfell’s quirks. He pondered how to make them anxious about their safety even behind the walls. The sooner the people divided into cliques and turned on each other, the better.  
He was not known for his sense of humour, but Jon HAD grown up among a group of boys who ran wild in and around Winterfell.  
Thus, he had some ideas.  
First he snuck into the caves and dumped a bag of sudsing powder into the hot springs.   
Next, he had the troops create ‘gifts’ – small balls of flower petals, perfume, quirky objects packed inside a fragile ceramic ball that they hurled into the courtyard using trebuchets.   
The first push back he faced came when he ordered his men to make snowmen in the flat empty field at the entrance of the Winterfell gates. They objected.  
So he rounded the men up. “My father always told me that half of success in battle comes from knowing your enemy,” he said. “What do we know of Ramsey Snow?”  
“He doesn’t like to be called Snow,” one man muttered.  
“I can’t imagine why,” Jon answered drily.  
A few people laughed.  
“So what’s his reputation?” Jon prompted. “What do you know of him?”  
“Crazy as a bat,” someone called.  
“Vicious, paranoid ...”  
“Cruel.”  
“He hurts women.”  
“He hurts people …”  
Jon listened as his men traded stories and anecdotes about Ramsey.  
“So what’s the goal of a siege?” he asked them again. “What do I want to happen?”  
“You want them to starve,” someone said.  
“That would take too long,” Jon objected. “Winterfell is VERY well provisioned.”  
“You want them to come out to fight,” someone else said.  
“Right. And how to do I get them to do that?”  
The men shrugged.  
Jon sighed and outlined his plans in grand strokes. “We want them to fight among themselves,” he explained. “We want them to be mistrustful, anxious, uncertain who is loyal and who is not. And I want to remind them that I know Winterfell better than they do.”  
“So what’s up with the snowmen?” one asked.  
Jon smiled. “What are Ramsey’s troops going to think they are for?”  
“They won’t know,” one young boy answered thoughtfully. “Just like the ceramic pots. They’re going to speculate and wonder and argue amongst themselves …”  
Jon nodded.  
Over the next few days, an army of snowmen emerged from the edges of the forest and appeared to creep across the flat land towards the castle. Some were plain, mere blobs of snow, but others were elaborate creations, decked out with amusing costumes.  
Sieges were deadly dull and some of the troops took advantage of the exercise to compete amongst themselves. The snowmen army grew more fantastical with mythical beasts among the men and battle scenes re-enacted.  
There were other advantages too.  
With the loss of so many men, Stannis’s troops had more weapons than anyone could carry so some of the men buried weapons inside the bodies of their snowmen.  
Stannis was profoundly irritated by Jon’s tactics.  
“Who the hell ever heard of using snowmen to fight a battle,” he said fretfully at a private meeting with Jon. “You’re making us into a laughing stock.”  
“Who is laughing?” Jon asked.   
“When are you going to use poison?” Stannis asked.  
“That’s my next strategy,” Jon assured the king.  
First, he packed poisoned meat into the ceramic pots that were being hurled into the courtyard, hoping that some of the dogs that Ramsey was so famous for would find the meat.  
Then he waited until a dark, snowy night and he poured barrels of bright yellow dye into the canal that brought fresh water into Winterfell.  
He told no-one the truth – the ‘poison’ was an emetic that could cause stomach ache in concentrated quantities, but would be unlikely to harm anyone diluted as it was.  
The real trick was the dye which (he hoped) would make everyone in the castle THINK that the water had been poisoned. It had a strong metallic taste and a bright colour that would stain everything it touched.  
Among the odd assortment of things that the wildlings had brought with them were interesting musical instruments. One example was a kind of wind instrument that looked like an upside down octopus. The player pumped air into a bag while blowing into a tube and the noise that emerged from the myriad of pipes sounded like a dying mammoth. It was loud and unpleasant and distinctly non rhythmic. Apparently it was traditional for various teams of so-called bagpipe players to ‘compete’ with each other.  
Jon did not understand the game or how anyone could stand to listen to the caterwauling for more than a few minutes, but he placed dueling pipers around the more protected area near the Godswood and encouraged them to make as much noise as possible during the wee hours of the morning – day after day.  
The soldiers in the siege camp were far enough away not to be bothered, but the sentries in Winterfell, and presumably many of the inhabitants, had no-where to hide.

**  
Stannis’s Southern men were growing restless. They felt ignored and belittled. It was cold. The Northern lords delighted in telling outlandish stories of winter weather – snows so deep that only the tops of tall trees could be seen, cold so intense that piss froze instantly in mid air, frozen fog that people had to force their way through …  
Jon rolled his eyes at the stories, knowing full well that they were ridiculous. The truth of a Northern winter was bad enough without needing the exaggeration.  
“How much longer can we stay here before we are completely snowed in?” one Southern lord fretted at a king’s council meeting.  
“We need a drop-dead date,” another agreed.  
Jon hated these conversations. The last thing he needed was for Bolton to hear that there was a date when the besiegers would pack up and leave.  
In his private papers, he had another date circled on his calendar.  
He had not written to Bella. At first, he had started several drafts, then torn them up and burnt them. Now after so long, he did not know what to say. No doubt she thought him rude.   
As the weeks ticked away, he debated leaving camp to be with her.  
It was irresponsible of him.  
He had not told anyone – even the king – about Bella so he could not ask permission to go to her.  
It was selfish of him.  
No-one else got to leave the siege. Even the king was camped permanently in his tent.  
It was reckless of him.  
What would happen if the Boltons learned of his absence?  
What would happen if the Boltons decided to fight while Jon was away?  
Sansa sent him coded messages reporting on her limited success with the Northern lords. “They are hedging their bets,” she warned him. “If we lose, they will have to deal with Roose Bolton and his nasty son so they are reluctant to commit.”  
Stannis swore and cursed them. “So much for the vaunted loyalty of the North,” he said angrily.  
“Bolton is also a Northerner,” Jon pointed out.   
Sansa wrote that she had an idea … she was going to discuss allegiances with her mother’s kin in the Eastern region of Westeros.  
“What about the bannermen in the West?” Stannis asked Jon as they looked at a map.  
“They’re loyal,” Jon assured him. “But they’re also small and they lost their best men marching South with Robb.”  
“What if you were to go to them personally?”  
“You mean leave the siege camp?” Jon asked carefully.  
“Why not?” Stannis said sharply. “Bolton has shown no sign of shifting from his position.”  
Jon could not quite believe the opportunity being presented. “You would grant me permission to travel West to recruit more fighters?” he asked.  
“Yes, yes,” Stannis said irritably. “Didn’t you hear me the first time? If not troops, they could supply us with additional rations.”  
So Jon packed a dog sled, whistled to Ghost and went West.  
Towards Bear Island. 

**  
Jon had been back in the siege camp for only a few days when the flag went up.  
He was patrolling the outer edge of the tree cover, just out of range of most bowman. Ghost frolicked ahead, seemingly oblivious to the threat of arrows.  
One of the young Northerners Jon had recruited stood with him. “That’s a white flag,” he reported.  
Sure enough, one of the empty flagpoles on the tower was sporting a plain white flag.  
Jon scowled. “Go get me Stannis,” he ordered one of the young boys who were loyal to the king. “You! Get me bowman stationed just at the edge of the forest here. Make sure they have good sightlines. And you three – fall in with me.”  
He watched as the great reinforced doors of the outer wall of Winterfell opened ponderously.   
“Ghost!” he called. “To me!”  
He walked out into the wide flat staging area that all knew would soon be a battlefield. His three young Northerner lads straightened their armour self-consciously and walked behind him. He could hear the rustle as bowman rushed into position.  
Four riders rode out of the Winterfell on big, powerful looking horses, dressed in light non combat gear. One carried a white flag.  
Jon walked down to meet them.  
He was merely feet away when he realized that one of the riders was Ramsey.  
Jon paused within hailing distance.  
“Come to surrender?” he asked Ramsey.  
“Hardly,” the current master of Winterfell sneered. “But a siege is deadly dull and I was curious to see the FORMER bastard of Winterfell with mine own eyes.”  
He smelled of stale cheese and unwashed clothes and blood and an odd queer tang that made the hairs on the back of Jon’s neck stand up. Ghost snarled silently, showing his canines.  
“How’s life in Winterfell?” Jon asked mildly. “Warm enough in there for you? Got enough food? Found the storage lockers, ok?”  
“We’re well provisioned thank you,” Ramsey said lightly. “I came to ask you how long you plan on camping on my territory.”  
“Not long,” Jon promised.  
“You’ll never take the castle,” Ramsey said. “You, more than anyone, should know how strong the walls are and how easy it is to defend.”  
“I DO know,” Jon agreed. “I explored every inch of Winterfell in my youth and I know her weaknesses and well as her strengths.”  
Ramsey curled his lip. “Autumn is almost over,” he said. “What were those famous words of your father’s family?”  
Jon ignored the quip. “How are my people?” he asked mildly. “I’m guessing that some of your guests are not as loyal as you’d like now that the true master of Winterfell has returned.”  
“You are nothing but a bastard,” Ramsey said. “Your people, as you call them, are too noble to rally behind a baseborn boy.”  
“As one Snow to another …”  
“Don’t call me that!” Ramsey interrupted. “I was legitimized.”  
“As was I,” Jon smiled grimly.   
“I have ways of ensuring loyalty,” Ramsey answered.  
“I’m sure you do,” Jon nodded. “But do you trust them in battle or when your back is turned?”  
“They have no cause to complain,” Ramsey said.  
“That’s not what I heard from those who have escaped,” Jon said.  
“Like who?” Ramsey asked sharply. “Do you have my Reek?”  
“And your wife,” Jon answered.   
“Your baby sister?” Ramsey snorted. “She wasn’t all that satisfying. I grew bored of her.”  
“She was never my sister,” Jon countered. He paused for a moment. “But I did KNOW her before if you get my meaning.”  
Ramsey’s eyes glittered. He must have tightened his grip for his horse tossed its head and stomped uneasily.  
Jon was slightly surprised that his soft lob had hit a target; he’d expected a bastard boy to have tougher skin.  
“I’m here to tell you that if you pack up and leave now, you will not be harmed,” Ramsey announced grandly. “But if you persist in your folly, my troops will harass and kill your people, steal your food supplies, and burn your tent camp to the ground.”  
“Tell your father I appreciate the warning,” Jon answered.  
“The message didn’t come from my father,” Ramsey snarled.  
Jon shrugged.  
“You will NEVER take Winterfell,” Ramsey swore, then he turned and galloped his horse back to the castle.  
Jon walked back to the safety of the trees.  
Stannis scowled when he reported the conversation. Jon explained that the conversation was evidence that his tactics were getting to Ramsey, but Stannis waved his argument away.  
In the midst of their ‘spirited’ conversation, a scout arrived with news that during Jon’s brief encounter with Ramsey, a small group of riders had fought their way through the siege lines and entered Winterfell through a back door.  
Jon was furious. “It was a distraction!” he realized angrily. “And I fell for it!”  
“You’re still new at this,” Stannis answered coolly. “Up to now, you’ve only read about sieges, not lived through one.”  
“I need to go talk to the men,” Jon decided.  
He strode out to the camps stationed at each possible entrance to Winterfell and released his pent up frustrations on the troops who had let the riders through. “Do you understand the meaning of a siege?” he asked furiously. “You’re in charge of making sure no-one gets in OR out.”  
The men were apologetic.  
“They came on so fast,” the commander of the small band confessed. “We weren’t ready.”  
“Shoot the fucking horses next time,” Jon told him. “We need the meat.”

**  
The first attack took place that night, but wasn’t discovered until the morning.   
Two men on patrol came across the mutilated and half-eaten remains of a camp follower. They followed protocol by bringing the body back to camp and burning it.  
The following night, soldiers sleeping in a tent near the edge of camp were awoken by screams. They went to investigate and found another camp follower – a woman this time – dying in the snow from an apparent animal attack.  
After the third attack in as many nights, the scouts who found the next body sent for Stannis and Jon.  
“Animal attack,” Stannis pronounced, looking at the body and blood and the tracks in the snow.  
“What kind of animal?” someone asked.  
Jon took note of the large wolflike tracks.   
“Shadowcat,” one of the scouts suggested.  
Stannis glared at him.  
“Bear,” someone else guessed.  
“Too big for a wolf,” the first scout argued. “Plus, they hunt in packs.”  
“Identify the body and burn it,” Stannis ordered them.  
He and Jon walked back to the tent.  
“You’re awfully quiet,” he said to Jon.  
“Pretty sure it was a direwolf,” Jon said.  
“Where’s your monster?”  
“It wasn’t Ghost,” Jon snorted.  
“They common this far south?”  
“No.”  
Frustratingly, the attacks had the same effect on the siege army as Jon had hoped his strategies would have on the Boltons. The men grew fearful and superstitious. They muttered under their breath about secrets their leaders weren’t sharing with them. Queen’s men stopped walking with Stannis’s men and Northern men threw up their hands at the silly Southerners.  
Jon joined the night patrol with Ghost at his side.  
He was paired with a soft spoken young sentry from the Riverlands who chatted easily to Jon about all the new things in the North he was learning.  
When the attack came, it was swift and silent.   
One minute Jon and the sentry were standing in the dark of a cold night, quietly joking about whether their gloves were warm enough and what the next day’s meal would be, and the next minute there was a deadly snarl and the impact of a huge furry body launching into them.  
The lamp fell and they were engulfed in darkness as if someone had dropped a heavy cloth over their eyes.  
Jon was knocked into deep snow; his conversation partner screamed a high thin shriek. There was the horrific sound of leather and flesh tearing as the beast tore into the man. The creature snarled and growled and snapped deadly teeth.  
Jon scrambled to his feet and swung his sword wildly.  
The creature ducked away from the sword and backed off for a moment.  
The other man lay sobbing and gasping in the snow.  
Jon took up a defensive stance, holding his sword ready as he tried to guess where the creature was by its breathing.  
But for a moment, it appeared to have vanished.  
Jon could not hear anything over the moans of his companion.  
There was a whisper of sound behind him. He whirled, almost falling and the creature attacked, sinking its teeth into the thick leather brace on his right wrist.  
Jon yelled in pain and dropped the sword, reaching for his dagger with his other hand.  
And suddenly there was another wolf, silent but every bit as powerful, snapping at the ruff of the first monster.  
The creature turned to face this new threat and Jon fell to his knees on the ground, clutching his arm.  
His head was full of the sound of snarls, the wet scent of damp fur and human blood, the TASTE of blood in his mouth, the emotion of hate, and a familiar scent … of brother?  
The two wolves raced off, one snarling and growling, both snapping and lashing out at each.  
And Jon was back fully to himself.  
He felt carefully in the snow for his sword and then went to tend to the guard.  
“Oh it hurts, it hurts,” the man was moaning. “Make it stop. Oh god. What was that thing?”  
“Direwolf,” Jon answered shortly.  
He lit the lamp and bent to examine the guard. Immediately he knew there was no chance. The gash on the man’s face was scary, the beast had ripped off part of his ear and slashed the man’s cheek open to the bone. But a worse injury was the arm where blood pulsed out and even as Jon tried to wrap the arm to slow the gushing blood, his fingers brushed against the cool, slippery tubes of the man’s inner organs and he knew that both injuries were fatal.  
“Oh mercy,” the man begged.  
Jon took his body to the medical tent where injured men lay in cots lined up in a row.  
“Another?” one of the healers asked.  
“Too late for him,” Jon grunted as he lay the body carefully down. “We’ll burn him in the morning.”  
The healer nodded, frowning. It was a sad daily ritual.  
“And you?” she asked.  
Jon held out his wrist. The leather gauntlet was shredded in an alarming way, but it had protected him from serious harm. The healer washed his wound out and wrapped it up securely.  
“Keep an eye on it,” she warned him. “Behaviour like this isn’t normal. I’m worried the creature might be sick.”  
“Hungry at the very least,” Jon agreed.  
Dawn was near and the sky was tinged with pink as he left the medical tent and headed to the King’s tent.  
“Is he up?” he asked the guard on duty.  
“Just breaking his fast,” the man nodded.  
Jon ducked into the King’s tent which was already full of men, arguing about the events of the last few nights.  
Everyone had a theory.  
“It’s a bear,” one man said.  
“Who ever heard of a bear attacking a camp like this?” another sneered.  
“Could it be something more sinister?” someone asked.  
“Like what? Werewolf?”  
There was much scoffing. “Next we’ll be blaming snarks or grumpkins.”  
“The attacks are real enough,” one man snarled.  
Jon spoke into a pause in the squabbling. “It’s a direwolf,” he said bluntly.  
Stannis, sitting quietly in his usual chair scowled. “And you know this … how?”  
Jon held up his bandaged arm. “I was attacked last night.”  
There was a hum in the room.  
Stannis frowned. “Nice to see you survived,” he said drily.  
“Thanks to Ghost – he drove the creature off,” Jon nodded.  
“So you saw it?” some asked.  
“I did.”  
“You’re sure?”  
“More than that,” Jon said calmly. “I know this direwolf. It belonged to my brother Rickon.”  
The announcement brought men to their feet, exclaiming in surprise. Jon waited for the hubbub to die down.  
Stannis looked grim. “What else do you know?”  
Jon shrugged. “His name is Shaggy Dog. I helped Rickon train him when he was just a pup, but even then he was pretty wild.”  
“What kind of a name …?” someone muttered.  
Jon smiled faintly. “Well Rickon was only a boy when he named him.”  
“Is this some kind of Stark family tradition?” Stannis grumbled. “To match the boys with direwolves? Your brother Robb went to battle beside a direwolf, didn’t he?”  
“Girls too,” Jon acknowledged. “We came across a dead direwolf with six pups and we each got one.”  
He was acutely aware of the mutterings of the men in the tent. He knew of the fantastical stories told about Robb and he suspected that people whispered about him and Ghost as well. They weren’t far off. When he closed his eyes at night, he was as likely to dream as a wolf as he was as a man. He’d never told anyone of the depth of his connection to Ghost, but he was aware that it crossed some kind of line.  
“So what do we do?” one of Stannis’s men demanded. “Can we hunt the beast down?”  
Jon sat at the table and nibbled at the breakfast laid out. He listened to the debate but made no comment until Stannis shooed the men out.  
“You were uncharacteristically quiet,” Stannis said.  
“Sorry, not sure I have much to add,” Jon answered.  
“Really? As our resident expert on direwolves, you should have an opinion.”  
Jon shrugged. “Direwolves are smart. Shaggy Dog went for my sword arm knowing that he could disable me that way. I doubt any hunt is going to pose much threat.”  
Stannis glared at him. “Threat to whom?” he asked calmly. “To the wolf?”  
Jon sighed and resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Be a waste of our resources to go chasing after a direwolf. With all this snow, he’s much faster than us.”  
“So what’s your suggestion?”  
Jon grimaced. “You’re not going to like it.”  
“I never like your ideas.”  
Jon grinned. “He’s hungry. Feed him and see if I can’t get a collar on him.”  
“You mean to tame him?”  
“He’s already tame to a certain degree. He knows basic commands.”  
“So all my men need to do is yell – halt! Play dead!?” Stannis glared at him.

**  
Jon was watching some of his men practise with one of the newer trebuchets when he noticed the great gates of Winterfell shudder.  
“Go get the king,” he ordered one of the young men. “And warn the archers to be on their guard.”  
The trumpeter blew the horn and the troops rushed into position.  
They waited.  
Stannis arrived and they watched side by side as the great gates swung open.  
Jon used his Myrish glass to peer at the riders as they emerged.  
“Ramsey,” he reported.  
“Under a white flag,” one of the young guards confirmed.  
“Just like before,” Jon grumbled. “Send word around that it might be another diversion.”  
“He won’t try the same thing twice,” Stannis said.  
“Want to go to down and trade pithy words with him?” Jon asked.  
“No,” Stannis said bluntly. “You go. Tell him I won’t treat with bastards.”  
Jon walked down to meet Ramsey, who was seated astride a large, impressive destrier. He was flanked by three other young men in full armor, all riding fine, powerful horses.  
Jon walked up to him, flanked by a handful of young Northerners, picked primarily for their ability to stay calm.  
Ramsey looked down at him literally and figuratively.  
“You again?” Ramsey sneered. “Where is the king? Abed with his famous red woman?”  
“The king has no intention of treating with a bastard,” Jon said.  
“So he sends a bastard to speak for him?” Ramsey frowned.  
“Yeah.”  
“I know you tried to poison the drinking water,” Ramsey said.  
Jon smiled faintly. “That’s not the only thing I’ve done,” he said mildly. “How are you finding the air in the sleeping chambers? Are people coughing more these days?”  
Ramsey scowled. “My father insists that I give you one more chance to depart,” he said. “Out of respect for your father.”  
“We’re not leaving,” Jon said. “Have you noticed that our numbers are swelling? Quite a few Northerners are showing me their support. Are you sure of the loyalty of those inside the castle?”  
“I have your brother,” Ramsey interrupted.  
“That would be quite a trick, seeing as they are all dead,” Jon retorted.  
“As I’m sure your Reek has confessed, we never killed your brothers,” Ramsey said.  
Jon looked unimpressed.  
Ramsey held up a small child’s quilted jacket.  
“Cute,” Jon shrugged. “But you’re in Winterfell – there are lots of Rickon’s items lying about. Hell, you could probably find some of my own clothes if you looked.”  
Ramsey nodded to one of the men riding next to him. “It’s your brother Rickon,” the man said with the flat vowel-swallowing accent of a North-Easterner. “Came to us ‘bout a year ago with some wildling woman. Looking for sanctuary. Father took him in, but afta he died … well, I figured the new Lord o’Winterfell might reward me …”  
“We’re a bit crowded in the castle these days,” Ramsey said slyly. “But the boy seems comfortable enough where he is.”  
“You’ve no proof,” Jon said.  
“The Northerners in the castle say they recognize him.”  
“The same ones who watched you marry a steward’s daughter?” Jon smirked.  
Ramsey twitched.  
Jon smiled.  
“The boy was captured with his direwolf,” Ramsey insisted. “He’s half a warg, like all the Starks.”  
“And where is his direwolf now?” Jon asked.  
The men looked shifty. “We had ‘im,” one said. “In a cage. But he got away. Last I heard, he was following behind, howling like the monster ‘e is.”  
Ramsey smiled. “You haven’t seen a lone direwolf stalking the local woods, have you?”  
Jon frowned. “I have no doubt you have a boy who looks like Rickon in your dungeons,” he said softly. “But I’m not going to sacrifice my strength here to save one sad little child, no matter how pitiful his story is.”  
“He’s your brother,” Ramsey insisted.  
“So you say,” Jon shrugged again.   
“I will hand the boy over if you agree to leave,” Ramsey offered.  
“No deal,” Jon said calmly and then turned to walk away.  
“I haven’t touched him yet,” Ramsey called after him. “But never fear, I’ll tell him that you refused to help him.”  
Jon paused, his back still to Ramsey. “I feel sorry for the child in your dungeon,” he said. “But the answer is still ‘no’. You are squatting in my home and I mean to remove you.”

**  
Stannis glowered when Jon reported the conversation.  
“I hope you’re not going to do anything foolish,” he said.  
“Like what?”  
“Storm the castle?”  
“There’s no way in that would allow troops,” Jon retorted.  
Stannis snorted.  
At evening fall, there was again a commotion on the walls of Winterfell.  
“He keeps opening that damn gate like he doesn’t understand what a siege means,” Davos grumbled to Jon. “We should hide some troops close to the walls so the next time he comes out to taunt you, our men can run in behind him and take the gate.”  
Jon nodded thoughtfully.  
The gate wasn’t opening this time though.  
Instead, a huge red banner was unfurled at the top of one of the great walls. It flapped for a few minutes and then was pulled away to reveal … a lone figure standing on a scaffold-like structure.  
Davos pulled out his Myrish glass and peered at the wall. Then he handed the glass to Jon.  
Jon walked down into the open, well within range of the bowmen on the walls. His squire stood beside him, holding an enormous shield.  
He put the glass to his eye and took a moment to focus. It was nerve wracking, standing out in the open, exposed to arrows, but he trusted his squire.  
The figure on the scaffold was a teenaged boy – tall, thin, with a mop of long, unruly, reddish brown curls. He stood quietly on the scaffold with a noose around his neck and a mulish expression on his face. He was dressed in traditional Northern clothing with the great direwolf of the Starks embroidered on the front of his coat.  
Ramsey appeared beside him briefly. He waved cheekily at Jon.  
Jon put down the Myrish glass and trudged back to Davos, standing out of range of the bowmen at the edge of the forest.  
“Well?” Davos asked.  
“It’s Rickon,” Jon confirmed grimly.

**  
Jon sent Sansa a raven with news of Rickon’s capture and a curt message – ‘battle is imminent’. He wasn’t sure how far away she was.  
Stannis called a war council and explained the situation.  
For once the lords were united in their surprise at the news that one of the Stark boys had survived.  
Stannis shot down the accusations that he had done them wrong by not sharing the information. “We had intelligence that the boys had survived,” he said shortly. “But for tactical reasons, we didn’t want to tell anyone.”  
“Does this mean that this boy, the trueborn son of Ned Stark, is the true Lord of Winterfell?” one man finally asked. Several shot uneasy glances at Jon.  
It was an unusual situation. Bastards were rarely ever legitimized and almost only ever if they were the last surviving child of a lord who wanted to avoid his lands going to some distant relative. To have a bastard be legitimatized when a trueborn son existed was unheard of. The men sitting around the table were suddenly unsure of Jon’s claim and uncomfortable at the uncertainty.  
“Let’s get Winterfell back before we start worrying about who issues orders to the servants,” Jon said gruffly.  
“It changes nothing,” Stannis insisted. “We cannot storm the castle; we have to wait for them to come out.”  
Jon knew that they could not storm the castle. Back when he and Robb had been kids, well teens really, they had studied siege tactics. Their teacher had posed dilemmas such as this – what should you do if one side has a hostage? Do your tactics change depending on the perceived value of the hostage?  
Back then, it had been easy. It was theoretical. They had joked about Jon’s value vs Robb. A sister’s life vs an imaginary lover …  
They had understood that you gave power to your enemy if you showed them how much you cared about someone.  
Ramsey was a psychopath – even if Stannis’s army had a hostage, Jon thought that it wouldn’t sway Ramsey.   
But Jon … Jon cared about Rickon.  
He had held Rickon as a baby. He had taught him how to swim and dusted him off after falling from his pony. He had snuck Rickon sweets when he was sick and winked at him behind lady Catelyn’s back when she was telling him off.  
He remembered Rickon as a hurricane, always running, always bursting into rooms, always yelling and shrieking … a hellion on two chubby legs.  
He grabbed a bottle and snowshoes and left the camp, striding angrily into the forest.  
By the time he returned to camp, it was full dark. Davos was sitting in Jon’s tent, frowning over a letter. “I hope you haven’t done something stupid,” Davis said mildly.  
Jon held up the still mostly full bottle.  
Davos handed him a scroll.  
Jon cracked the seal and read the short message from Sansa.  
“She must be close,” Davos observed. “To get a response so quickly.”  
“She’ll be here tomorrow with troops from the Eyrie,” Jon reported.  
“I have a plan,” Davos announced.  
“Stannis told me not to do anything stupid,” Jon reminded him.  
“Told YOU, not me,” Davos responded.  
“They’ll be on their guard,” Jon objected. “Expecting something.”  
“So we’ll give them something,” Davos promised. “Just not … the truth. Come with me.”  
Davos had selected a small group of smallish men, dressed in dark clothes, armed with daggers, not swords.  
Jon led them quietly to the copse of trees on the other side of the Godswood. It was dark and they travelled in single file. The last person in line, dragged a pine branch behind him in an effort to mask their snowshoe tracks.   
It was snowing lightly.  
It was very, very dark.  
They reached the ancient section of the wall and the old, rusted gate. Jon bent to unlatch the gate and felt the hairs on the back on his neck prickle.  
He stood warily, looking around, holding up his hand in the universal signal of ‘hold’.  
The darkness was absolute, weighing them down.  
Ghost turned his head, red eyes peering into the trees.  
Jon felt rather then saw eyes in the darkness.  
He drew his sword carefully.  
The men around him had their daggers in hand, but they were blind in the darkness, looking around in growing concern.  
Two green eyes emerged from the darkness, there was a glint of teeth.  
Jon gathered his courage and stepped forward, his hand out. “Shaggy,” he whispered. “To me.” He snapped his fingers and pointed authoritatively to the ground.  
Shaggy Dog crept out of the shadows, a nightmare come to light.  
He was huge, but gaunt, with long, matted black fur and vivid green eyes that glared malevolently at Jon as he stalked forward.  
Ghost bared his teeth silently and Shaggy Dog growled softly, showing his own fearsome fangs.  
“To me!” Jon snapped, a little louder, a little firmer.  
The direwolf approached, slinking low on his belly.  
Jon reached for the wolf’s head, acutely aware of his vulnerability, his bare wrist just inches from the creature’s snout. He touched the rough fur and felt a wild jumble – the scents of men, his brother wolf, leather, and rust … fury and frustration and LOSS …  
“Shaggy Dog,” Jon murmured.  
The direwolf gazed at him and allowed Jon to scratch behind his ears.  
Jon pulled out some dried meat from his bag. The direwolf snapped it down without even swallowing. He sat, licking his lips.  
The men stared at the monster, their eyes huge in the darkness. No-one said anything.  
“Change of plans,” Jon whispered to the nearest man. “We send him in first, seeking Rickon. He’ll be able to smell him.”  
The man nodded, looking uneasy.   
“Shaggy Dog,” Jon hissed. “Take note – these are the good guys. Your pack.”  
He felt ridiculous talking to the direwolf. He walked Shaggy Dog down the line of men and made him sniff each one. The men held themselves stiffly, still holding their daggers in hand, but no-one fled as the direwolf sniffed at their boots or their hands.  
Jon put his hand on the wolf’s head again. He could feel nothing. He had no idea how to communicate with the direwolf. He made himself think of Rickon.   
He unlatched the gate leading to the dungeons and pulled it open enough for Shaggy Dog to squeeze in. The men followed the wolf into the dark corridor.  
Jon stopped the last man. “Don’t trust the wolf too much,” he warned. “He’s pretty wild.”  
“No kidding,” the man grunted, his eyes wide even in the darkness.


End file.
